The River Acheron
by Scarletforgotten
Summary: 1st fic. Modern day, movie based. A disenchanted Erik moves from Paris, France to Charleston, SC. ErikOW Probably a MarySue, but I'm trying to avoid that. Rating could change.
1. Ghosts and Rivers

Three a.m., the witching hour, an hour Lee Jones knew all too well. She breathed in the heavy, September air, relishing the smell of the brackish Cooper River, and the sounds of a bustling college town on a Friday night.

_The Holy City_. Full of ghosts and angels, tourists and smiling locals, church steeples and gulla gee chee spices; there was no place like it. Her home. Her city. Her love.

From beyond the barrier islands the breeze brought the fresh, uncompromised scent of the sea, gently shaking the palmetto fronds into an odd symphony of rustling tendrils. A tingling sensation filled her as the rare, pure smell flooded her nostrils and mind with the memories of countless summer days spent at IOP.

Summer made her restless. It always had. Nights that were once spent lazily chattering on the porch with friends and family, were now consumed by introspective thought, and when she thought about things too much she started to sulk. Lee's life had been too good. She didn't deserve to sulk.

So she did a little moonlighting, bartending, hit up the jazz clubs, or picked up a few gigs with local bands, members of which she'd gone to school with several years ago. Anything to keep her busy.

Going for a run at three o'clock in the morning was nothing out of the ordinary for Lee. Her friends told her she was crazy; they said she had a death wish, but the ones who truly knew her let it slide, knowing that any argument they made for her safety would be lost on deaf ears.

She jogged down the steps carefully, the familiar, dull ache already creeping down her left leg, and hit the street running. A large, mostly black, German shepherd ran happily by her side, soaking in a plethora of smells, sounds, and sensations that Lee could never hope to recognize. His out-of-place, pale blue eyes lit up in the illumination of street lamps, revealing him for what he truly was, a mutt.

Her dark curls jostled joyfully with every step, though her gait was smooth and calculated; she fought hard to eradicate any signs of a limp. A limp was a sign of weakness. Weakness meant vulnerability. Vulnerability could mean death.

The cold metal of her Glock 22c burned familiar warmth into the skin of her back, engraving her with confidence and security.

No one messed with Lee Jones. No one.

Sweat dripped down her face and accumulated heavily beneath the black brace on her leg, hiding the tell-tale signs of bite marks; the remnants of one of life's many lessons she had learned the hard way.

The humid air clung to her every pore, and she absorbed it like only a blue-blood Charlestonian could.

_In Dixie Land I'll take my stand, to live and die in Dixie._

She passed George Washington park, slowing down with her dog as he looked longingly to the monument which bore his name.

"Tomorrow, Beauregard, I promise." He let out an appeased yelp in response and quickened his pace, challenging her to keep up. Tonight they were headed for the Battery.

The story was that the ghosts of executed pirates could still be seen hanging from the live oaks. She'd never seen them; in fact, Lee had never seen a ghost at all, but she'd _heard_ one once.

Her first year of college, she'd woken up early one Sunday morning and decided to go for a stroll; she hadn't paid attention to which street she was on, but an odd whistle caught her ears. The tune was familiar but she couldn't place it. She had looked everywhere for someone else, outside on their porch, or in a secluded garden, but there had been no one, and the whistling never increased or decreased in volume. It ceased suddenly and was replaced by church bells, hammering out the exact same melody. It was only then that she realized she was on Church Street. She had heard Dr. Joseph Ladd.

Seven years later, and the memory still thrilled her. A cynical skeptic, the enticing world of the supernatural razed the otherwise rational personality she maintained. She _wanted_ to believe, but she _couldn't_ believe.

But the internal conflict only served to draw her in further. And there had been no need for Fox to cancel The X-Files.

Ok, maybe there had been. No, there had been no need to resolve the sexual tension between Moulder and Scully, thus ending the series.

Personally, Lee had always been a fan of the smoking man.

A sullen whine from Beauregard jerked her back into reality. The dog had his eyes set one of the trees closest to the old Gazebo.

There had been a time in Lee's life, when she would look at that gazebo and envision their wedding.

"_And youth is cruel, and has no remorse, and smiles at situations which it cannot see."_ She muttered the lines softly, her slight drawl tainted with slender sadness.

The always aloof, yet flamboyant, General P.G.T. Beauregard suddenly went ape shit. And of course, she _had_ to follow him.

He ran around in tight circles beneath a low-hanging branch. Lee didn't have to look hard to see the dark outline of man hanging precariously by a rope.

She hadn't brought her phone. She _never_ took her phone with her, even when she ran at three in the morning.

"Damn." She mumbled to herself, audible only to her dog, who was _not_ giving up. His barking increased in intensity. It could only mean one thing. "He's still alive?"

A wag of the tail was all she needed, and Lee was in business mode. She didn't hear him coughing, or struggling, but she knew the dog sensed things she couldn't.

Lee surveyed the situation, knowing that she was too short to cut the rope. She drew her gun, slowly, knowing that she was wasting valuable time, but there were things one had to consider before shooting a gun in a residential area.

She aimed, hearing her grandfather's voice as she always did when she drew her weapon. _Never aim, lest you aim true._

The shot rang out loudly, in an otherwise quiet part of town. Lee was vaguely aware of footsteps and shuffling, winos fleeing the scene, lest they be implicated.

His body hit the ground with a sickening thud. There was only one thing left to do…

_Her lips hadn't been hot rose buds of passion; they were cold, unforgiving, and as they pressed against his own a feeling of dread settled heavily in his gut._

_He couldn't do it. He couldn't force her to live a life of misery, married to Hephaestus when she could happily have Adonis._

_Erik knew all too well how that myth played out. Aphrodite was less than loyal._

_His hand was still touching his lips, in utter disbelief. He was a monster and a fool. There was only one way to have any redemption._

"_Go away."_

_She didn't say anything, just stared at him with those light brown eyes, like a deer caught in the headlights of a Lamborghini doing 300 on the autobahn. "Leave me. GO NOW!"_

_She turned quickly back to the boy, and rushed to his side, pulling him up from his knees. Erik turned his back, unable to watch them walk away, hand in hand._

_Five days later, a small package arrived at his door. It contained the ring he'd given her. The next day, a marriage announcement was in the paper; they'd eloped._

_He thought that if he left Paris it wouldn't be so bad. If he went somewhere away from her, away from them; where there was no possibility of a chance encounter, however minute; he thought he could forget._

_Everything he owned was rotting away in storage units, save a suitcase of ridiculously expensive, hand-tailored clothing, left in the corner of a high priced hotel room. _

_He'd destroyed his compositions, sold his 650i coupe, fired his maid, renewed his passport and took the first flight out of Paris to America. From Atlanta to Charlotte to Charleston, frightened mothers and children in every airport; it had been hell._

_And it hadn't gotten any better. Not after his things arrived and were properly stored, waiting patiently for him to purchase a home. Not after buying a new car, something American, something macho. The memory of his angel plagued his every waking moment, and violated what little sleep he achieved with wicked dreams._

_So three weeks after he had arrived in Charleston, he left the dark confines of his hotel room, got into his car, and drove aimlessly, knowing that the right place would blatantly present itself._

_Erik was always meticulous, and his final feat had to be his most perfect. He looked out over the water, forgetting its proper name, thinking of another. He should have ended it so much sooner. His existence left a scar on the living world worse than the right side of his horrid face. No one could love him; no one would love him, not his father, not his mother, and not his angel._

_With a final sigh Erik Destler launched himself from the ancient branch, anticipating the cold splash of oblivion as he plunged into the river Acheron._


	2. Hospital Gowns and Transmissions

Ok, so I don't own The Phantom of The Opera. In fact, I don't really own much, struggling undergrad, you know. I'm not even entirely sure where this story is going, but it is a nice distraction from homework, and I'm not an English major, so please forgive my poor grammar. And in case anyoen is wondering, Acheron is the river of woe.

* * *

His eyes twitched uncomfortably, as the dark gray orbs valiantly fought to adjust to the bright, fluorescent lights. White walls surrounded him, and he couldn't move his arms or legs.

_He was in a hospital_. Erik felt panic consume him. How could he have messed that up?

It was all so simple. He'd jump from the branch, and the rope would break his neck. Not exactly rocket science.

But _something_ had gone wrong. The half-memories came back to him; he'd miscalculated, or perhaps fate simply didn't see it fit for him to get out so easily.

Erik had dangled from that tree calmly, hoping to any deity that his prayers for death would be answered. And just before he blacked out, he saw her.

"How could you be so damn incompetent?" His head whipped around toward the voice. A familiar form stood in the doorway, hands on her hips, her upper lip curled up into a smirk of disgust.

_His mask_. His hands raged against his restraints, needing to feel the cool porcelain of his mask. He fought off the panic and found that he could feel its comfortable form, still perched haphazardly on his face.

He glared at the girl, cursing her with his eyes. How dare she defy him so blatantly? He spat out the only words that came to mind. "La petite chienne. Pourquoi vous ne me permets pas de mourez?"

Her face converted into consideration, as she went over his quick rant. "Why couldn't you get it right to begin with? The rope is supposed to break your neck; that way it's quick, and easy, and no one walking by with their dog, who happens to have a hero complex, has to save your sorry ass. I mean, seriously, you can't possibly comprehend what an awkward situation this has made for me. Now I feel responsible for you. I can barely take care of myself, much less another person." She sighed and threw herself into a chair.

Erik didn't really know what to say. He wanted her to leave, but something told him that she wouldn't acquiesce to his request so easily. He remembered the feeling of her lips pressed against his, forcing life back into him, her hands pressed against his bare chest…Why couldn't he just _die_?

"I _hate_ hospitals. All this damn white, it's depressing. _Oh_, and what the hell kind of man buys a 2006 Chevy Corvette Z06 with an automatic transmission? You get so much more torque with a standard. I think it should be illegal for sports cars to be made with automatic transmissions; it just takes away all the fun. I mean, if you're going to lay down a good eighty grand for a car, get the real thing."

He groaned inwardly. Erik was most likely the only man in Europe who didn't know how to drive a stick. It had been hell to find the BMW he wanted.

Americans had seemed to have different moors concerning their transmissions. Obviously not this one. And why the hell was she still there?

A tingling sensation crept up his right leg, starting in his foot. He tried to shake it and groaned. "My foot is asleep." The words were out of his mouth and dissipated his resolve not to speak to her.

"How about, I'm so and so, thanks for saving my pathetic excuse of a life. Sorry to jeopardize your career and make you spend two hours in the police station, signing statements and avoiding accusing glances from your colleagues."

"You're a police officer?" He jerked his foot again; it was really getting to him. And he certainly didn't need _her_ to remind him of how pathetic his life was. He'd never met such an audacious woman.

"Worse. Lawyer." She stood up slowly, favoring her left leg slightly. She was short, much shorter than Christine, and young. Her skin was a dark, but natural, tan; her eyes and hair black as death. Tight, dark curls bounced from the confines of a simple pony tail.

They weren't the milk chocolate spirals of perfection his angel had. They were wild; a tangled jungle of intertwining vines, sporadically moving of their own accord.

She wore a loose fitting, red t-shirt, proudly displaying The College of Charleston, and black shorts. A black brace hid part of her thigh and continued down to her calf.

A small hand, adorned simply with a bulky, silver ring, loosened the restraint holding down his ankle. "Mum's the word." The slight drawl on the end of her words gave her speech a sweet, intoxicating quality.

She sauntered back to the chair. "Why are you still here?"

"I told you; I feel responsible for you now. I can't let you off yourself after all the trouble I've been through. And besides, for whatever reason, General Beauregard seems to like you." She pointed to the floor and Erik lowered his gaze, seeing for the first time, the massive dog staring up at him.

"Merde." The thing looked positively menacing. Erik appreciated that. "What if I promise that I won't kill myself?"

"I may be paranoid, but typically I don't trust strange men wearing masks. That does kinda resemble half of William Shatner's face; you're not a French Michael Myers want-to-be, are you?"

"I'm going to kill you when I get out of here." His voice was as intimidating as he could make it. He did not appreciate her insults.

She was completely unimpressed. "Oh good, not only did I save your life, but now I've given you something to live for as well. If I keep this up I'll have to start going by my first name." She glanced at the man's watch which swallowed her petite wrist. "_Shit_. Quick, pretend that you're asleep."

He watched her sprawl out on the chair, and closed his eyes just before hearing footsteps, a soft swishing accompanied them. "Stop pretending to be asleep Lee." The woman's voice was high and a bit whiny.

"Go to hell, Melanie."

"Why are you here? You saved his life, good job; you're done; go home, take a shower, and for Christ sake, get some sleep."

"Eh, I'll sleep when I'm dead. So, what's going on with my mystery man?"

"Apparently he's some kind of composer or something. As soon as he regains consciousness we're moving him up to the psyche ward."

He opened his eyes enough to watch the scene through his lashes. The woman with the whiny voice was obviously a doctor. The girl, who'd, unfortunately, saved his life, had gotten up from the chair.

"You can't do that, Mel. The guy's been through enough already. No one should have to stay in a hospital any longer than necessary."

"You're kidding, right? No, you're not. Lee, the man tried to _kill_ himself, and there's no one for us to call, not here, and not in France."

"So release him to my care."

"You are just as suicidal as he is! For Christ sake, Lee, you don't even know his name. And he wears a white porcelain mask. Only homicidal maniacs wear masks like that."

"And homicidal maniacs who wear masks only kill couples who are having sex, about to have sex, or just finishing up. As long as I don't fuck anyone, I'll be fine."

"James would kill me, Lee. He's already so pissed. You could be disbarred."

"For what? Saving a man's life? I _have_ a permit to carry concealed; the only law I broke was shooting off a gun in the city limits, and under the circumstances, there isn't anyone in the DA's office who'd pursue that, even if the guilty party wasn't one of their own."

"I can't do this."

"Come on, Mel. This is exactly how your parents reacted when I let Chrissy move in, and that turned out fine."

"FINE!" The yell startled him, until then they had kept their voices at a relatively low, if not strained, level. "He's all yours. Good job, Lee. You can't even take care of yourself; how are you going to watch over this guy?"

"He can hear us, you know."

"You little _bitch_. Just wait, at your funeral I'm going to tell everyone about how goddamn stupid you were, and get that _fucking_ dog out of my hospital!" She stormed out of the room.

"You can stop peaking through your eye lashes now; she won't be back any time soon."

He opened his eyes and studied her carefully. None of it made sense; why would she want to help him?

Easy. She felt sorry for him, pitied him. It was the only emotion he could evoke from a woman. "I don't want your pity."

She laughed, almost sadistically. "Pity? You don't want pity? That's just about the funniest thing I've heard all week." Her voice suddenly turned dark, laced with an icy edge that even he could admire. "Pity is all you want. You pity yourself more than I ever could." She turned and walked out of the room.

In retrospect, maybe it hadn't been such a great idea. Of course, hindsight is always 20/20. It was Lee's foresight that needed improvement.

Aside from cheaply made horror movies, she had enough sense to know that true homicidal maniacs rarely wore masks.

Granted, he _was_ screwed up. Lee was tempted to take a sharpie and write "DAMAGED GOODS" across that smooth, shiny face of his, the smug bastard, threatening her life like that...

In all honesty she'd saved him out of selfishness. Her moral integrity simply couldn't suffer the tragedy of letting him die, though she could plainly see how much he wanted to.

But, _that_ was a selfish thing to do. Surely, life couldn't be that bad? No, his life was definitely not that bad. Melanie was wrong; Lee did know his name. And any man who drove a car like that, and stayed in the Carriage House Inn for three weeks had some serious money.

Therefore, he was _not_ a starving Ethiopian and at least had _something_ to be thankful for, if nothing else, then all that horsepower. Maybe he'd let her drive it.

She sat outside of his room, on the floor, sick from the sterile hospital smell. As a girl she had spent way too much time there. It made her leg hurt in a way she knew was purely psychological, but couldn't quite get past anyway.

Erik Destler, alias Philippe Gerard, composer of everything utterly depressing. He was good. She couldn't understand why he'd up and move to Charleston. It didn't make any sense; none of it made any sense.

A shiver went down her spine as she laid her hands on the cold, linoleum floor. Rising slowly, she took a deep breath and calmly walked back into his room.

"I checked you out of your hotel room. You can check back in, of course, I just assumed you wouldn't want to pay for a room you weren't staying in." She avoided looking at him; Lee had never been one for eye contact, and something about him threw her off. "Your suitcase is over there." She pointed to a corner.

"How long have I been out?" His speech was embellished by a lingering accent, though his English was very polished. Beneath the raspy, exhausted voice hid a soothing, musical quality.

She looked up at him; his black hair a complete mess, fiddling with his hospital gown were long fingers connected to slender hands. The left side of his face was chiseled, and handsome, but worn down by grief and agony...self-pity.

"Not long." Lee looked down at her grandfather's watch. "It's going on five now…Thirteen hours or so."

"Will they deport me?"

This was something she'd already been over. Being an ADA had its advantages; useful information was one of them. "No, I took care of it, but they did impound your car."

An awkward silence besieged them. She'd been in that room for eleven of those thirteen hours; not knowing why, she'd waited patiently for him to wake up. "I'm sorry; I didn't introduce myself. Lee Jones."

He nodded in an unbelievably smug manner. She'd never met a man with such low self-esteem and concurrent arrogance. "Erik." He stated simply, letting the last syllable fall flat.

Her phone went off, vibrating from the confines of her pocket. Chrissy had brought it to her earlier, full of unspoken concern at her absence.

She pulled it out quickly, letting out an irritated sigh when she saw the number. "Jimmy."

James' voice came through, full of authority and bull shit. "Don't call me that. You owe me big time, and still you find it necessary to harass my wife, who only operates in your best interest. I think you owe her an apology, _Kyrie_."

He spat out her first name like it was something vile. "Tell your wife not to get her panties in a bunch." A revelation came to her. "I'm taking the masked man home with me. Y'all can join in if you're feeling kinky."

She clicked it shut and scowled, her attention caught by a gruff clearing of the throat. "_What_?" She was suddenly not in the mood to banter with a suicidal son of a bitch.

"I'd appreciate it if you left me out of…"

She cut him off. "I don't care. You are on my shit list right now. Get dressed, you're checking yourself out."

For the second time that day she'd allowed her emotions to get the best of her. Cursing silently, she dug her fingernails into her palms and left the room. She'd needed a distraction, and now she had one.


	3. SoCo and Oysters

Perhaps acting solely out of spite was not the best way to get through life. Although, according to Dr. Melanie Thompson, resident at Roper St. Francis, _not_ senior attending, Lee's ultimate goal was to drink and work herself to death before she turned thirty.

Lee remembered quite well how her slightly older friend had acted on _her_ thirtieth birthday, and now Mel was a married mother of one leading an unbelievably dull life. Getting hacked up by a deranged psycho killer would be a quick way to avoid getting old, and much less stressful than the alcoholic, workaholic plan.

She paused and subconsciously chewed on the end of her pen, an old habit still present from her school girl days. _Where_ had she put her Talking Heads CD?

She continued signing and initialing documents, her chicken scratch handwriting utterly illegible. It was probably in her Ford. She found it somehow fitting to listen to classic music in a classic car.

Not that she was really anywhere near thirty. But for some reason Mel, Mel's parents, and the entire universe thought that a woman in her mid-twenties should gage the worthiness of her existence on her significant other, or, as in Lee's case, the lack thereof.

If not married with a kid in tow by thirty, well, then one was too late, and had to suffer the consequences of a lifetime of being the third wheel. Or fifth wheel, but why argue semantics?

Lee Jones didn't need a man in her life. She did just fine on her own, and besides, she'd tried that whole shin-dig before; it hadn't worked out.

And kids? Lee _hated_ kids. She never knew what they really wanted, and tended to give in to their every demand just so they'd shut up.

She also had a habit of referring to a child, not by name, or by sex, but by the highly impersonal, and even degrading, pronoun, "it". In essence Lee was completely lacking in any maternal instinct what-so-ever. She knew it, and based on countless screaming children, they knew it.

"What do I do to get my car back?" She glanced at him, taking in the sight without letting him know it.

The man knew how to dress. Nip/Tuck Christian Troy slacks, button down, and jacket, all a perfect fit. Ridiculously expensive, and more attractive than was safe.

Lee loved when men left the top buttons undone, and black was certainly his color.

He was tall too, about ole Julian's height, maybe shorter, but younger. It was hard to tell, stress tended to make people old before their time; she was guessing thirty-two.

Thirty for a man was much different than thirty for a woman.

"I'll take you down to the impound tomorrow." She waved off any protests. "It's not on the peninsula; you won't know how to get there. Besides, you're staying with me. I know; I know; you can't possibly accept, blah, blah, blah, let's just get the hell out of here."

Over the years she had found that simply speaking as quickly as possible and acting on her words immediately left people too dumbfounded to protest.

"Don't you think it's highly inappropriate for me to stay with you? And, all that aside, what if _you_ are a rapist, homicidal maniac?"

"Then, being a bit suicidal, you should be more than willing to enthusiastically accept my offer. Erotic asphyxiation, a much better way to go than plain old asphyxiation; don't you agree?"

"Damn."

"In deed. Now, really, let's get out of here before Melanie sees us." They exited in silence; she was surprised that he actually followed her.

It took forever to find her truck. Lee was constantly forgetting the location of parking spaces.

The search commenced, and concluded in uncomfortable silence, an awkwardness which only grew when they got into the car.

It still had that new car smell. The black, Chevy Silverado 1500, short bed, black leather interior, sun roof, seat warmers, and everything else completely unnecessary but entirely nifty, was an intimidating vehicle, and not at all convenient for down town Charleston. Not that Lee cared.

She turned on the radio, trying not to steal glances at him as she drove, but it was so damn hard with those buttons being undone.

"_This is my last resort…Suffocation…" _Life really did have such an ironic sense of humor. She turned the radio off and pressed the CD button, not bothering to check which CD was in the deck.

Long lost blues melodies flooded the cab. "Who is this?"

"Phil Woods." She had been instructed by a private teacher, many, many years prior, to listen to Phil Woods as much as humanly possible. It'd paid off.

"Are you a musician?"

So the masked man had an inquisitive side. "Piano and sax, alto, I dabble with the others."

"Do you sing?" He was cautious about asking it, like he didn't really want to know the answer.

"Oh hell no, I'm horrible." She watched him nod out of the corner of her eyes; he seemed…relieved. "You're not going to kill yourself in my house, are you?"

"That'd be rather impolite."

"Glad to hear it."

* * *

Her house was safely nestled between Meeting and East Bay, a good part of town; he'd looked at a condo on the very same street. And why the hell was he going along with her? 

Simple, his car; he needed his car back and she could most likely get it out of impound for free. Not that the money was a problem, but he could endure one night.

Erik studied the house carefully. The wood siding was old, a gray-blue color; it was very large, three stories with a two story porch, and black shutters pulled it all together.

The yard was small, like all yards in Charleston, but well kept, with simple, yet pleasant, landscaping.

Of course, he was really just lying to himself. The truth of the matter was, and he loathed it admit it, but the girl, _woman_, intrigued him to no end. Beautiful, fearless, intelligent, and full of wit, a deadly combination, and apparently she was a hell of a shot.

He frowned. Christine had about one of those qualities, but _she_ could sing. Christ could she sing. Like an angel bearing salvation, she had harkened to him, and naturally, he couldn't help but fall in love.

A shiver went down his spine at the thought; the familiar, cold dread filling his gut.

They bypassed the ground floor, going up a staircase on the first story porch. As they reached the top and came to the top porch he took inventory. A heavy punching bag by the stairs, rocking chairs close by, farther down a hammock, and at the far end a swing; in the middle of it all was a black door.

She opened the door muttering quietly. "Welcome to my humble abode." He dragged his suitcase behind him, and the dog walked eagerly by his side.

The door led into a large living room; it was a light shade of brown, almost olive, and very open, running straight into the dining room. The floors were wooden, old, and dark; the furniture was modern but obviously well made; she had good taste.

"You entertain many guests?" He asked, pointing to the monstrous dining room table.

"Occasionally I invite a few friends over for diner." There was a particular cadence to her speech that he found pleasing. "Living room, don't you love that flat screen TV? Dining room," she led him through the area. "Kitchen."

The kitchen was also very large and open. He could tell that several walls had been knocked down, and from all the arches, they had probably been load bearing walls. Instead of wood the kitchen floor was tile; the countertops looked like granite; the appliances were all stainless steel, and very nice.

So the girl, _Lee_, had some money.

She led him down the hallway and opened a door. "You can sleep in here." It was obviously _not_ a guest room. The walls were a striking shade of blue, made even more so by the white trim. Again, the floor was wood and dark, and the room was almost unusually large. "There's a bathroom through there."

He glanced to the door she pointed at, noting the unique comforter on the king sized bed. It was a greycliff paisley pattern containing various shades of blue, red, silver, gold, and that olive color on her living and dining room walls.

The bed looked perfectly made; the room overall impeccably clean. Dark mahogany furniture was spread about carefully. There was a fireplace on the wall across from the bed, the mantle scattered with a few picture frames, above it was another flat screen television.

She took his suitcase and set it on top of the bed. "Tour's almost over." A chuckle followed this. "You know, I used to actually give tours in college. Ghost tours and carriage tours; tourists will believe anything."

He followed her back out into the hallway. She opened another door along the way. "Another bathroom." They kept walking, the door at the end of the hall their apparent destination.

The room was smaller than the others, but still spacious. The walls were a shade of gray, not completely unlike his eyes; there was a large desk, littered with papers and a lap top. In the far corner was a spiral stair case. "This is my office that I never really use and up here," they climbed the steps carefully. "Is my library."

The entire third floor was just a huge, open space. Wood floors, books lining the walls; on one end was a baby grand piano, on the other, a pool table, couch, and television. "Mi casa es su casa. Or something along those lines. I need a shower, so if you could please refrain from killing yourself, I won't be long. There's probably some food in the kitchen, if not, then there's plenty of liquor."

She hadn't been joking about the liquor. Her cabinets were…well stocked. He stood out on the porch, looking down at Laurens Street. There was a lot for Erik to think about; he needed to get his shit straight.

So killing himself hadn't worked, and he didn't think he could muster up the guts to try again. He wasn't even sure if he really wanted to die anymore.

It _was_ a beautiful town. He could settle down there, start composing again, just enough to make ends meet, nothing fancy, and hide away from the world in a gorgeous Southern mansion.

The life of a recluse really wasn't that bad. He'd been comfortable, though malcontent, before. It wasn't until his angel came along that things had gotten so bad.

_No,_ it wasn't until that blue-eyed imbecile came along; _then_ things had gotten bad.

He walked across the porch and took a seat in one of the dark red rocking chairs. The breeze blew the sweet smell of unnamed blossoms; he closed his eyes and took it in sensuously, blocking out the sounds of traffic on East Bay.

The sound of a door shutting brought him back. His unneeded rescuer handed him a glass of ice and red liquid; she kept one for herself and sat down on the swing. "It's a Scarlet O'Hara."

He nodded and sipped it carefully. The drink was sweet and sour; a warming combination of cranberry juice, lime, and a liquor unknown to him.

He turned his gaze in her direction. She rocked gently back and forth; her wet curls, now free from their prison, were impossibly tighter than before, and Erik had the sudden urge to pull one of the unruly tendrils.

She looked out over the porch, her attention seemingly held by thin air. He marveled at just how dark her eyes really were. "Hungry? I can go grab something from somewhere; the grocery store is about a block away. And of course I can always get some take out; everything is close, just tell me what you want."

"Lee Jones." The voice had a heavy accent, the likes of which he'd never heard before. "You damn well better introduce me to your guest." He turned his head; a black woman stood by the stairs. She looked to be about fifty.

Lee rose quickly. "Sorry, I seem to be forgetting my manners."

"You're damn right you are. Child, where are we?"

"In Charleston."

"And Charleston is?"

"The closest place to heaven on Earth?"

"And?"

"And the best mannered city in the nation eleven years running. Chrissy, this is Erik; Erik this is Chrysanthemum Wilson."

The woman walked over; he stood slowly and they shook hands rigorously. "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Erik."

"Likewise." The exchange between Lee and Chrissy had been curious, almost, mother-daughterly.

"I live downstairs, so if you need anything, don't hesitate to ask. Have y'all eaten?"

"We were just discussing that. You?"

"No, child. You know I'm waiting for Ramon to get off work."

"I'm craving some oysters. Think I'll ride out to Anchor Line. What do you want?"

"Calm strips, don't forget to ask your guest."

He had no idea what the Anchor Line was, or what kind of food they served. "Um…" Oysters were good. "Oysters?"

They were making him feel very _normal_. In fact, it was probably the most normal conversation he'd ever had. "Would you like to ride with me?"

He looked straight at her, trying to find some kind of ulterior motive in her eyes, but they were dead, emotionless, and her face seemed completely sincere. "Ok."

"Great. Flounder for Ramon?"

"You know he won't eat shell fish."

"More for me."

Erik followed her down the stairs, unable to keep from noticing how flattering her blue jeans were.

* * *

Talking Heads album 77 has a song on it called Psycho Killer, ironically, parts of it are in French. 


	4. Tyler Durden and Virginia Woolf

Thank you so much to all of my reviewers. I'm sorry that I haven't replied to y'all personally, but this week has been more than hectic. Biological anthropology is difficult, and I have this minor thing on Saturday called the LSAT. I'm glad to know that there are more people out there who appreciate Talking Heads. I also apologize for the delay in updating; this story isn't prewritten, I'm just making it all up as I go along, so please, if you notice any inconsistencies or anything, let me know.

_

* * *

_Fried oysters were very different from raw oysters, but just as good, if not better. Had there been any left over, he would have gotten up and raided the fridge, but as it was, he and Lee had devoured them all. 

Erik didn't usually eat so much, but the salty little tid-bits had been too good to pass up, and went down even more easily with cheap beer.

Cheap, but still alcoholic beer and perhaps he'd drunk a little too much. A slightly elevated mood had been increasing in mirth since dinner; he'd been horrified to find himself actually smiling at one of Chrissy's corny jokes.

The four of them were certainly an interesting lot. He didn't know exactly how Lee had come to know the gulla gee chee woman, or the Hispanic man who resided below, but apparently they'd been living in the same house for quite some time.

He flipped the TV over to the TV Guide Channel and gracefully slid off the bed, daintily tip-toeing to the fireplace.

Erik had been meaning to inspect the pictures since he'd first noticed them. There were only three, enclosed by cheaply made frames, displaying cryptic images. One was old, a black and white of a man and woman, obviously on their wedding day. The man was tall and stern, broad shouldered and reminiscent of a 1950s movie star. The woman was a taller, stouter version of Lee; the same black eyes stared out at him from the glass, chilling and killing his buzz.

He set the picture down carefully and glanced at the other two. The same man from the first was in all three, though much older in the last two. In one he held a very small girl on his lap; not looking at the camera, the man's attention was solely on her, a look of pure love on his face. It had to be a very young Lee.

The last picture was of a group. The man from the first two, who by now Erik had concluded was Lee's grandfather, stood behind a smiling couple, also clad in wedding attire. They had to be her parents.

There were only two other pictures in her house. Both snapshots were on the wall in the living room. One displayed Lee wearing a graduation gown, standing beside of Chrissy in front of a large Washington and Lee sign. The other was of Lee, Chrissy, and Ramon, standing on a tropical beach somewhere and obviously wasted.

It was more than curious. He pondered over it more while shuffling back to the bed. Erik had the inclination that Lee, L double E, the masculine spelling, which she had made a point of telling him at dinner, was named after her grandfather.

_But_, that wasn't her first name. She'd said so in the hospital. Not that it really mattered, he wouldn't be sticking around long, and no one called her by anything other than Lee anyway.

So why was he so curious about it? Why was he so curious about _her_?

Maybe it was because of how human she'd made him feel. The ride out to the Anchor Line had been longer than he'd expected, and they insulted each other the entire way there and back.

He really had to be on his toes with her; she was a clever one, her retorts always hard hitting and full of immaculate wit.

At first it had been insulting, but very quickly angry banter had turned into meaningless sparring.

And then there was dinner. For the first time in his life since he'd run away from his mother, he had sat down at a table with other human beings and consumed a meal; he ate with them, drank with them, and conversed with them; the whole ordeal being surprisingly low-key and enjoyable.

He adjusted one of the dark blue pillows. All of the bedding was of very high thread count; he preferred silk sheets, but hers weren't unbearable.

So he had one night of relatively common behavior. If he continued…it could only end badly. Erik had learned that the hard way.

He closed his eyes; unable to contain the tears conjured by the memory of Christine. The look on her face when she had taken off his mask…

Erik would never forget it.

_The warmth that spread through him when he felt her behind him; the thrill of her hands connecting with his shoulder, and then a dagger straight to his heart; the cold air of his basement causing him to shiver as it unexpectedly collided with his exposed flesh._

_Her scream had been shrill and ear piercing, enough to shatter his soul._

He had to leave. Erik knew he couldn't go through such heated betrayal again. He'd been very close to not making it through the first time. A life of friendship wasn't for him; God had seen to it that he was denied companions.

And yet…part of him wanted to stay, to enjoy the simple pleasantries he'd been afforded. Lee wasn't anything like Christine. Some long-lost, blue-eyed twit showing up out of nowhere wasn't going to impress her very much. At least…he didn't think so.

And when asked about Ideal Forms Lee could actually construct a highly conceivable argument in favor of her point, instead of just, staring at him like he was an idiot for asking.

It didn't matter. The following day he'd have his car and-

"_Merde._" He shouted much too loudly as a dark feline jumped onto his chest, straight out of thin air. "Que l'enfer?"

A pair of yellow eyes stared back him, sharp claws kneading into his skin. "Feuille."

The cat, probably the ugliest one he'd seen in his life, didn't listen. It occurred to him that maybe the vile creature couldn't understand French. "Shoo."

It still didn't move, if anything, it dug its claws in harder. He couldn't get over how ugly it was; a dark mix of black and orange, if it hadn't been lying on his chest he might have felt sorry for it.

Erik slowly reached for it, only to be met with a malicious hiss and swat. "Ow." He sucked on an injured finger; the little she-devil had brought blood. "Bitch." The cat purred.

He couldn't remember falling asleep but a heavenly aroma seeping into the room woke him up.

He opened his eyes and saw the cat. Erik decided to take his chances and rolled over, thanking everything holy that the persistent feline didn't roll with him.

He got up quickly and dug through his clothes, finding something satisfactory, he proceeded to the bathroom.

The hot water felt divine as it poured down on him, purging him of that horrid hospital smell, and allowing him precious moments of thoughtless bliss.

And then came the major dilemma, should he shampoo and condition with Garnier Fructis, length and strength? Or John Frieda, brilliant brunette?

Erik opted for the brilliant brunette and was just about to repeat when the furry beast from Hell scrambled into the shower with him.

* * *

Lee stopped stirring the pot of shrimp 'n grits and looked up to Chrissy. "That's funny. I could have sworn I just heard a ten year old school girl screaming." 

The older woman walked out of the kitchen, a concerned expression on her face; Lee followed, trying to not laugh.

All her self-restraint failed when her new house guest ran into the hallway, wearing nothing but a towel and his mask. "L'obtenir loin de moi."

He spoke too quickly for her to make sense of it. She didn't speak French, but could usually piece recognizable bits together and make sense of things. Four years of Italian and a summer in Palermo hadn't been a complete waste of money.

That's when she saw V.W. "Aw, who's afraid of Virginia Woolf?" He glared at her, but she was more concerned with the hilarity of the situation, and the sight of him in nothing but a towel. "I think she likes you."

"This cat slept on me last night, attacked me, and assaulted me in the shower."

"I can see that." The non-shiny side of his face turned red. Without saying anything, he scurried back into the bedroom. "Breakfast is almost ready!"

As soon as they were back in the kitchen, Chrissy and Lee burst out laughing.

"Poor man." She looked back over her shoulder at Lee who caught her strange expression inquisitively.

"What?"

"Nothing, you'd better start fixing them eggs."

Lee looked at her skeptically, but Chrissy had already turned her back. Whatever she'd been thinking, she wasn't going to tell.

V.W. meowed loudly from down the hall, no doubt trying to coax out her new love interest.

That cat hated people, even Lee, to whom animals were prone to flock. Not Virginia Woolf, she hated everything.

So she'd found a kindred spirit.

"When are we going to get my car?"

It really wasn't fair that he dressed so well. As if the towel hadn't been enough (or perhaps, too much), black slacks and a dark red button down, _the top buttons undone_, well…_damn_.

She realized she was staring and needed to say something irritating. "What about, 'Good morning Lee and Chrissy, lovely day isn't it? My, my is that breakfast you're cooking? Smells wonderful.'?"

He smirked, smugly of course, and ignored her. "My car?"

Lee let out a sigh and sub-consciously lowered her shoulders. "I forgot."

"I'm reminding you. My car, impound, is it coming back to you at all?"

"No, I forgot which day of the week it was."

"What is _that_ supposed to mean?"

She really had forgotten. It happened occasionally, one of the many downsides of insomnia. Lee just hoped that the past two days hadn't been some kind of hallucination.

God, what if the masked man was her very own Tyler Durden? She shivered at the thought of insanity.

"I forgot that today was going to be Sunday." She ran back over the sentence; it didn't really make sense. "The place we need to go won't be open."

His hands turned into fists. "How could you forget…Never mind."

"Would you two stop bickering and help me get this breakfast on the table?"

Lee had come across Chrissy when she was about sixteen. Chrissy, at the time, was forty and slightly addicted to cocaine.

They had met one night on King Street, in front of a long gone coffee shop. Chrissy had no home to go to, and Lee owned, or _would_ own, in a matter of two years, a house which nobody lived in. It seemed very logical at the time that she should live in Lee's house, rent free.

Melanie's parents had strongly disagreed, but Lee had never gotten along with them anyway. They weren't really family, just, distant cousins, and the only people around to take her in when her grandfather died.

They kicked her out, and she moved in with Chrissy, who went to rehab and became the mother Lee never knew.

So when the stern gulla gee chee woman "asked" her to do something, Lee did it.

Erik let out a groan and took the stack of plates out of Chrissy's hands. "What is that stuff anyway?" He pointed toward to the pot Lee carried.

"Shrimp 'n grits, Chrissy's specialty." V.W. jumped onto the counter. "Hey," before Lee could finish the cat leapt onto Erik's back.

It was more than impressive that he didn't drop the plates. "What the hell is wrong with this cat?"

Chrissy's laughter rang out from the kitchen. "I don't know; she typically hates everyone."

"She's getting her fur all over my shirt."

Chrissy laughed harder and Lee could no longer contain herself. "Just…throw her…down." She managed to get out between giggles.

"I've already tried that." He set the plates on the table and sighed. V.W. seemed more than content to cling to his shoulder.

"Lee Jones, you get that cat off your guest this instant!" She had tried to keep her voice serious, but by the end of her command it was choked with laugher.

Lee edged toward the cat carefully. V.W. was her _other_ cat; her favorite one, a gorgeous short-haired, black and gray tabby named Atticus, was currently sleeping on top of her piano.

"Who's afraid of Virginia Woolf?" She chided softly grabbing the cat in one swift, fluid motion.

"Ow. Shit." She threw V.W. into the bathroom and shut the door. Blood trickled down her arms from deep scratches.

"I know you're going to clean up before you sit down to eat." Chrissy had _that_ look.

"Yes, mother."

"Don't you _yes, mother_ me, Lee Jones. I'll invite your cousins over for dinner."

"Anything but that." Lee washed off the blood and applied pressure to her wounds.

Discarding a bloody paper towel, she finally seated herself at the table. "So…" They both eyed her suspiciously. "What?"

Neither answered; Lee suddenly felt like the victim of a poorly planned conspiracy. "I was thinking we could…spend the day at the beach."

He dropped his fork and simultaneously choked on his food. It would have been more entertaining if he hadn't looked so cute flustered like that.

She mentally kicked herself for being so girly, but damn, the buttons…

No, no, no, no, no, no…He might have had damaged goods written across his face, but she had it up and down her leg. Neither one of them were relationship material.

Splitting up with a fiancé of two years, best friend _and_ lover, all the corny shit people put into their own wedding vows, had left her more than a little jaded.

It wouldn't have been so bad if he had been an asshole, hit her, cheated on her, given her a reason to hate him. But no, Grey Richards was always the perfect gentleman.

It was a revelation Lee would always regret. Somewhere between freshman year and graduation, they had changed. And the people they had become just weren't meant to be together.

Or maybe they hadn't changed. Maybe they were just too young to realize how different they were at the time.

She hated it, and he hated it, but they both knew. She wasn't bitter, just…disenchanted. The fact that love _wasn't_ enough to keep two people together was just too counter-intuitive.

In truth, Erik was the first man she'd paid any attention to at all since Grey had left. He was completely different from Grey. Grey loved life, but hated change; he was smart, but not very intellectual, and his sense of humor had been nothing like hers.

He'd never understood why she found Monty Python so amusing, and she'd never understood why he'd found the NBA so entertaining.

Erik, however, was…_highly_ intelligent. A smugly clever SOB, surely he appreciated NCAA ball.

Actually, he probably didn't watch basketball at all. She only kept up with The College.

"Lee, are you going to eat those scrambled eggs, or push them around your plate some more?" Chrissy's voice jerked her out of her reverie.

"What? Oh, yeah." She took a bite, but the eggs were already cold.

Lee looked up from her plate and straight into his eyes. She felt heat rising to her cheeks. As much as she tried to resist, there was something greatly captivating in those stormy gray spheres.

* * *

The College is how they refer to The College of Charleston on TV when they broadcast our basketball games. We should actually have a good team this year. 


	5. Clutches and Gators

Again, great thanks to my reviewers. Sorry this chapter took me longer to get out. The LSAT is EVIL. And, back by popular demand...the Talking Heads.

* * *

She trudged down King, a black gig case securely held beneath her left arm.

"Good job tonight, Jones." Anderson's voice was bright and cheery. "You sounded especially depressing. I know we were playing the blues, but damn." He paused and flicked a cigarette to the ground. "Is it the case that's bothering you?

They stopped walking, prepared to part ways. The case to which her colleague referred was an especially heinous one; Lee couldn't figure out why the DA had assigned her to it.

"Naw, well, yeah, maybe…a little. It's just, I guess I've been a little distracted the past couple weeks, I mean…well, can't you _feel_ it?"

"Feel what, Jones?"

"Fall. Ah, forget it Anderson; go home and practice; your fills sucked."

They laughed and he lit up another smoke. The six foot tall, blonde-haired, brown-eyed attorney was one of the few true work friends she had. The other two, a pair of twins, Beatrix and Sam, or BS has everyone liked to call them, joined Lee and Anderson to form a highly unusual band.

The group, Passed the Bar, rarely practiced, and hardly ever got any gigs; in spite of this they were actually quite good.

"I'd offer to walk you home, but what's the point? Be careful Lee, and cheer up. It doesn't get that cold down here."

"Yeah, yeah, get home to your kids, married man."

"Until Monday…"

"Later, Blake."

She turned down George, sucking in the crisp air. It was a subtle difference. Another might not have noticed, but she did.

Sharper, cooler, the breeze carried different spices; the stars twinkled more brightly, less hampered by heavy humidity. It brought to mind Friday night football games, and camping ventures made upstate; the smell of steaks cooking over the glowing coals of a warm fireplace.

Lee paused by Great Wall. The place had been closed down since she could remember; on the wall of the building beside the former Chinese restaurant, someone had neatly painted "**Disappear Here**".

When she'd come home from Lexington for Thanksgiving, during her first year of law school, Lee had stood in that spot and prayed. Nothing had happened.

A curious sensation swept through her. The hairs on the back of her neck pricked up and an uncomfortable feeling slid down her back.

_Someone was watching her_.

She walked as casually as she could; her concentration entirely devoted to assessing her surroundings and pinpointing the location of her impossibly quiet stalker, she was unable to think past the dull pain in her leg and successfully eliminate her limp.

"You're limping."

She'd turned around and laid him out, a quick move her grandfather had taught her, Lee's leg connected with his shin…before her mind processed the fact that she recognized his voice.

"Holy shit, I'm sorry."

Lee extended her hand to help him, but he only scowled and pushed her away. It had been almost two weeks since she'd seen him. After he'd gotten his car he up and left.

He brushed off his slacks and frowned, his soft lips folding sadly. "I thought you'd be happy to know I hadn't killed myself."

"I said I was sorry. Wait, shouldn't you be apologizing to me? And how did you learn to stalk so well? More importantly, what are you doing here?"

"You're limping badly; what happened to your leg?"

"What? Oh, it, it just starts to bother me a bit when the weather changes; that's all." Lee couldn't help but think that he was avoiding her question.

"Yes, but why?"

"Old, college football injury. Torn ACL."

"Oh yes, I should have known. I bet you were a regular Reggie Bush."

"More of a Barry Sanders."

"My mistake, forgive me."

"Only, if you tell me why you were following me."

"Only, if you tell me what really happened to your leg. I remember that day in the hospital; you had a brace on it. You limped then too, but not like tonight."

"Why pretend to care?"

They stood at the corner of Meeting and George, staring each other down in dual of wills. _He_ was the reason she'd been so distracted.

He took two quick steps toward her; his long stride amazingly graceful. Before she could blink he was right in front of her, standing close enough to touch, and yet somehow, miles away.

He smelled of pure temptation, an alluring combination of anise and masculinity; if bottled, it could have been sold as pure sex.

Lee couldn't stop the blush from rising to her face at the thought.

"You played beautifully, Lee." His breath caressed her ear with ungodly heat; his voice, unnaturally enthralling, only tempted her further.

She _had_ to snap out of it. "I didn't think you frequented…_public_. It seems like more than mere coincidence; how'd you find out?"

"I saw a flyer while sight seeing one night. Passed the Bar featuring the music of Phil Woods. It might as well have said, 'Lee Jones is in this band'."

He'd moved back, giving her precious inches of space. "How very astute of you. So what now, you've kicked the suicide thing and decided to become a groupie?"

He snickered and stepped around her, dare she say, playfully? "I gave you a compliment, Lee; where are your manners?"

"My, my, Erik, do you practice bastardly behavior? Or does it just come naturally? I hate to admit, you're very good."

He leaned toward her again; his lips hovered above her neck and she was certain he knew the affect. "Maybe I wasn't pretending."

The comment threw her off. He was so damn enigmatic. She needed something drastic to counter his offensive.

The light bulb went off. "What are you doing tonight? Other than, stalking me, that is?"

For a second his face, barely visible in the light of scattered street lamps, contorted into confusion. "Why? Is your bed available?"

Oh, low blow, low blow. She chose to ignore it and stilled her retort. A sly smirk turned up the corner of her mouth. "It's the perfect night for a drive out to IOP." With a skilled wrist she pulled out her keys and tossed them at him. "You should drive."

A bemused expression upon his lips, he caught the keys effortlessly and followed her across Meeting Street.

The worst smell known to man was surely the acrid stench of a burning clutch. She winced, unsure if it was in deed possible to burn out a CenterForce.

"Ease up off the clutch, no, not that fa…Not that fast." The car jerked to a halt and he threw a frustrated fist into the dash. "_Hey_. This car is a priceless classic; now start it back up and try again."

He let out an irritated sigh and did as she said. It was nice to have the upper hand on him, especially after his little display. "You said this would be easy."

"So I overestimated your hand-foot coordination. Would you shift into second already?"

Shift-shock was a vast understatement. "I don't see what's so great about this anyway."

"Stop sign. Brake. CLUTCH!"

"_Damn it_. Why the hell am I doing this?"

"Because everyone should know how to drive a stick. Ease off the gas, good, see? Let's get onto East Bay and head toward the bridge."

"You're kidding right? What if I stall out in the middle of an intersection and someone t-bones us, and your car is totaled?"

"It's just a car, Erik. They make them everyday." She tried to sound sincere; the truth was they did _not_ make 1957 Ford Thunderbirds anymore…at all.

"You _just_ said that this was a priceless classic."

Damn. "Just, shift for Christ sake. You'll get this baby into fifth yet."

He was actually picking it up very quickly. Lee was impressed; God knew it had taken her weeks to get from neutral to first, but she wasn't about to tell him that.

An epiphany struck. With a crooked grin, she turned on the CD player, and forwarded to the tenth track.

"_I can't seem to face up to the facts…"_

"Could you turn that down? It's atrocious." She turned it up.

"_Don't touch me I'm a real live wire. Psycho Killer, Qu'est-ce que c'est. Fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa far better run run run run run run away…"_

* * *

The car jerked violently as he attempted to down shift. Erik frowned and turned right onto the IOP connector.

And everything had been going so well. Then, with a flick of her wrist and mischief on her lips, she'd turned the tables on him.

Not that he'd exactly planned on that little tryst. His resolve had been absolute; he'd buy a house and never leave the seclusion of its walls, never see any of them again. Not his angel and her love slave, not Lee, not Lee's little pseudo family, no one.

But the two women chaotically screwing up his life just wouldn't let him be. Unable to stop thinking about them, comparing them, dreaming about them, he'd gotten too restless to keep still. And a late Thursday night, or really, early Friday morning, had him marauding around downtown.

When he'd seen the flyer he could no longer bear his curiosity, and eight hours later found him giving in to temptation.

Erik might have been able to leave it at that, but then he'd heard her play, and damn was she good. If Christine's bright, crystal clear voice was that of an angel, then the dark, haunting tone Lee produced from her horn was surely the voice of a ghost.

She gave new definition to the blues, and he was willing to bet that she was even better with classical melodies.

As soon as he'd heard that first F, slightly sharp, but it was a sharp note for an alto-sax, he saw all the things he'd been unable to see before. Beautiful, intelligent, witty, and a completely real person, with a life and history, values and indiscretions, happiness and heartbreak, perfectly imperfect; she could understand him. And he could understand her.

He'd followed her out of sheer need, the inner workings of his mind consumed already by a new composition, a concerto exclusively for her, and his body moving of its own will.

Even as she had kicked him to the ground he wanted to tell her, needed to tell her, needed to make sure that what he had heard wasn't a fluke. But, protected by an untrusting sub-conscious, the first words out of his mouth had been cold and ambiguous, and before he'd become aware of it he was impossibly close to her, whispering into a delicate ear, his voice laden with seduction.

When he'd spoken like that to Christine she had instantly succumb to him, but not Lee. Lee took the ball and ran, now it lay on her side of the court, daring him to come after it.

And that wasn't going to happen so long as she kept putting him in such _unfamiliar_ situations.

The unmasked side of his face was suddenly blasted with sand.

"Whatever it is, stop sulking."

Erik knew his jaw was agape but couldn't, for the life of him, do anything about it. "Did you…did you just throw sand in my face?"

She stepped lightly through the water, long, black skirt flowing gently in a cool sea breeze.

Erik moved toward her, intent on vengeance, but she side stepped him in a dance-like manner and drew him closer to the water. It soaked through his Italian loafers and crept up the legs of his pants.

She was knee deep, lulling waves reaching upward to her waist. "Come and get me."

He took a step forward and stopped, knowing that his mask wouldn't stay put if doused with water. Instead he picked up a handful of wet sand and launched it toward her.

A successful hit, the sand clung to her hair. "Fine. Fine. Truce?"

"Truce." He held up his hands and backed up toward the dunes. The night really was beautiful. The smell of the ancient ocean brought to his mind the ramblings of one J. Alfred Prufrock, and suddenly he was aware of nothing but the repetitious waves.

"I should have been a pair of ragged claws, scuttling across the floors of silent seas." He muttered quietly, unsure if she was able to hear.

Erik sat down on the sand, watching her as she tentatively sat next to him. "The mermaids will never sing to you, and Apollo's not going to chase after me."

She had inadvertently given him an opening. "They wouldn't understand us anyway." He said it quietly, nervously anticipating her response.

"Don't I know it. Been down _that_ road before, and it ain't pretty. People think love is some beautiful thing that's wrapped up in a box of hugs and kisses. It's not. Nothing in life is that simple, least of all love."

The honey-dipped drawl and molasses coated cadence of her speech made her words sound all the more profound, but subject of love was not one he wished to discuss, and her comments only made him question further the feelings he'd had for Christine.

And the way he was starting to feel about _her_.

"It was stupid." He looked away from the ocean and back at her, a slender hand massaged her left thigh.

"What?" He wasn't entirely sure if he wanted to know.

"An alligator bit me."

"_What_?"

"Yeah, an alligator bit me, clamped down on my leg. I was twelve, and some kids double dog dared me to jump into this pond…and I did, and an alligator got me. That's what's wrong with my leg."

She said it like it was nothing, an everyday occurrence. Erik was slightly flabbergasted. "An alligator, tastes like chicken alligator?"

"Oh don't say that. Now I'll be craving gator tail."

He stared at her. Her dark curls blown wildly by the wind. "I…I've never met anyone like you."

"Coincidentally, I've never met anyone like you." She paused and frowned. "Are you planning to mysteriously disappear again?"

He sighed. "I don't know." It was an honest answer. "Would you care?"

"Erik," the way his name rolled off her tongue brought him to attention, like it was the most important thing in the world. "You are a world famous composer, hiding away from the world in Charleston, who wears a mask, and is absolutely genius. My life has been much more interesting since you…_dropped_ in; of course I'd care."

"How'd you know? I never compose under my real name." He'd deal with implications of the other things she'd said later.

"I wish I could say that I used my unlimited district attorney's office resources, but really I just googled you."

He should have known his alias would have leaked somehow. Damn internet. "Oh, that's…typical." He'd never thought to google himself. Erik debated. "Would you…Oh what that hell, would you like to go out for dinner tomorrow night?"

The worst thing she could do was say no, call him a freak, and laugh in his face, but even as he braced himself for rejection, he knew she'd accept. "Water's Edge, pick me up at seven, I want to drive the vette."

He opened his eyes. "Fair enough."

* * *

It really does say "Disappear Here" on that particular building. There are actually several places around the city where those words are spray painted.

Concert F D on an alto-sax

"I should have been a pair of ragged claws..." allusion to The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, by T.S. Eliot. Lee also alludes to an Eliot poem in the first chapter.


	6. Merlot and Chianti

Sorry it's been a while. Busy, busy, week, but hey, I'm finally twenty. Oh, and, I don't know the first thing about speaking French, so please forgive the online translator...translations.

* * *

Erik paced the apartment nervously, tossing aside yet another unacceptable article of clothing. What the hell had he been thinking?

Schubert's Unfinished Symphony filled the air, and he scowled at the injustice done to the piece, as well as his choice in ring tone.

He picked up his phone and looked at the number. "Ann…"

"_Erik_," she cut him off harshly. "Où l'enfer avez-vous été?" (_Where the hell have you been?_)

It was six thirty; he didn't have time to deal with the motherly ballerina. "Pas l'inquiétude, je suis beau. Je dois aller, ou je serai en retard. Au revoir." (_Don't worry I'm fine. I have to go or I'll be late. Goodbye._)

He clicked it shut and turned it off. She'd call again.

Erik finally decided on a dark blue button down. He buttoned it up quickly, neglecting the top three; he couldn't stand to have anything even remotely tight around his neck.

When he got to her house he again second guessed himself. He'd never been on an actual in-public date, date, but maybe she wasn't even considering it that, just a dinner shared between acquaintances.

The front door opened, ending his contemplation, and a frazzled Chrissy came out. "Lee tried to call you; she said your phone wasn't on. The DA called her around three and she's been at the jailhouse since. She's going to be late. Oh god, is that rose for her? Oh no, no roses."

He looked at the single, blood red rose held gently in his hand. "I thought every woman loved roses."

"Yes, and that's exactly why Lee won't appreciate it at all. She'd say something long the lines of 'Well, that's rather cliché isn't it? Put a lot of thought into that one, didn't you?'."

Of course, that was exactly what she'd say. Erik handed the rose to Chrissy. "Why did she have to go to the jailhouse?"

"Something to do with this case she's on. The defense wanted to deal, Saturday be damned." She paused. "Lee's all worked up about this one. That child hardly ever sleeps like she should, but this last week it's been bad, even for her."

He scoffed. "They make pills for that."

Her laughter was bitter. "Yeah, they make pills for pain too, but do you think she takes any of them? Come on inside my place here. God only knows how long you'll have to wait for her."

Erik realized how carefully constructed Lee's front of invulnerability was. Her usually stoic persona was only interrupted by calculated deviations. She _acted_ angry when it was appropriate to _be_ angry.

"That doctor of hers, oh what's his name? Doctor O'Malley, he's been calling for the past three weeks wanting her to come in for a new procedure, repair the nerve damage or something, but she'll have none of that. The girl's had one surgery too many, and I think she sees the pain as some kind of sick challenge."

He looked around the bottom apartment. It was quite different from the top two stories. There were several more rooms, and the furniture was older, not as nice. Pictures were everywhere, some of people he'd never met, and many others of Chrissy and Lee.

"Her parents…" He let the question drop, realizing that it wasn't entirely appropriate.

"Died in a car accident when she was six months old. Her grandfather raised her; she's named after him ya know, William David Lee. He passed away when she was about fourteen."

That explained that, then. There was something else about her he was dying to know. "What's her first name?"

Chrissy laughed. "Oh, Lord child, she'd kill me if I told you. I think she thinks its blasphemy."

"It can't be that bad."

"It's not; it's a beautiful name."

"Now you've sparked my curiosity even further; you _have_ to tell me."

"You promise you won't _ever_ call her by it?"

"I swear."

"Her first name is Kyrie."

Erik grinned at the thought. "And what type of flower does Kyrie prefer?"

"Gladiolus, and you'd better just forget she even has a first name."

He slumped down onto a worn recliner and sighed. Maybe she hadn't wanted to go out with him after all and conspired with Chrissy to stand him up in a way which would not be entirely detrimental to his lacking self-esteem.

His theory was shot to hell when she walked through the door, an expression on her face he'd never seen before, and couldn't quite place.

She looked at him eagerly. "I'm sorry."

She wore brown dress pants and a white button down blouse, the top buttons of which, were not at all clasped, resulting in a low cut, modest enough to be overwhelming tempting. Her sleeves were somehow pushed up to her elbows, making her appear a bit disheveled.

"You look nice." He choked out the compliment.

"You're kidding right? Thanks anyway, so do you. Now, I'm starving and am in desperate need of a very stiff drink."

Erik rose slowly from the chair. "Where is this place, anyway?"

"Shem creek. And don't forget, I'm driving."

He tossed her his keys, and she missed. "Nice catch."

"Yeah, yeah."

She could have been after his money. Erik had to take that into consideration, after all, she did _know_ of his work and what it entailed. Or maybe she just felt sorry for him, like the mongrel cat, distorted and pathetic, he certainly wasn't the first stray she'd taken in.

Women liked projects. They liked thinking they could _fix_ things, fix people, and surely she was no different. Whatever it was she imagined lie beneath his mask was nothing compared to his true form. And when faced with the truth she would run away like all the others. Like Christine. Like his mother.

Madeleine, the spoiled whore; to call the bitch a mother was sacrilege. The scars on his back were more telling than that of his face. People were punished for mistreating dogs, but not she for beating him, for starving him…for locking him away in the attic and tying that sack around his head, tight around his neck.

She couldn't really enjoy his company. No one could. Somehow it was all a hoax, the world entertained on his behalf. God surely had a good laugh at his birth. _Devil's child_. Not nearly so intrepid.

A loveless, God-forsaken coward was-

A sharp pain jolted through his shin. "_Stop_ sulking." Her voice held that icy edge he'd heard but once before. It wasn't feigned anger; it was true annoyance.

He looked up and found her dark eyes glaring at him coldly, perpetual depth, infinite voids. _Eyes I dare not meet in dreams…_

"Why are you so masochistic?"

He tore himself from her ever penetrating gaze. Wasn't the answer obvious enough? "Better my own hand, than to rely on the inexistent mercy of man."

She snickered and threw back a glass of wine. It was at least her third. "Have you looked around lately? It's a beautiful evening, warm, comfortable, the air smells like salt and sautéed garlic; the sky is this unbelievable pale blue and there are freakin' dolphins jumping around in the creek, right in front of us. What is there to sulk about?"

Erik sneered in response.

"Fine. Be that way. I'll give you something to sulk about you smug son of a French whore. What's her name?"

Her question startled him more than anything, initial shock quickly replaced by anger. "What, did you find _that_ out on google too? Does she have a blog?"

"_Through_ google, and no. I'm a lawyer; it's my job to read people. You look at me like you're comparing me to someone; quite frankly, it's unnerving. My curiosity is getting the best of me, and I can't help but wonder how I measure up. Besides that, though, it's blatantly obvious in your sixth symphony, so unlike your others, that you were madly in love with someone when you wrote it. And because I came across you hanging from a tree, I assume that things didn't work out. So what's her name?"

"What do you mean it's blatantly obvious in my sixth?" Erik hadn't thought anyone would catch the subtly uplifting nuances, much less infer the undying, at least at the time, love of the composer.

She sighed and slumped into her chair, taking a bite of her tuna and washing it down with another half glass of wine. "Why do you compose music?"

"Cathartic release."

"Right, but…the point of music is to make people understand; they hear it and connect it with their own lives. That's why you compose; that's why I play the blues; we're searching for a connection, just like our good friend J. Alfred. I've improvised off a couple of your melodies before, incomparably depressing, and people get it. That's what makes you so good. That's what makes me good."

"No one could possibly _get it_. Not even you, Lee. Especially you." It came out harsher than he'd intended, and wasn't entirely true. She _did_ get it, more than anyone; maybe not the gory details but she'd certainly grasped the gist of things.

She laughed. "No, Erik, you don't get it. Come off your high horse and face the facts. You're really not that different from everyone else. Life bitch slaps us all, but right now I'm eating dinner at my favorite restaurant, drinking a very nice merlot, enjoying the beautiful weather of the Holy City, and happily basking in the company of an utterly mysterious genius with whom I can converse intelligently and who challenges me intellectually and in every other way conceivable. Instead of sulking about the fact that Monday I'm taking a case to court I can't possibly win or worrying about whether or not you'll up and disappear again, I'm just going to enjoy myself."

He processed her words slowly, watching her gulp down more wine. She didn't even seem tipsy, but they were on their third bottle, and Erik had only had two glasses.

Something she'd said rubbed him the wrong way. He'd tried to let it slide but found his rage too much to subdue. "Life bitch slaps us all? Do you think I wear this God-awful mask for my own personal amusement? Why do you think my mother beat me? Why did she leave me to die?" He chuckled maliciously. "How the hell has life _bitch_ slapped you?"

He couldn't bring himself to look at her. It had to have been enough to make her leave, and then he could stop worrying about it; he could stop trying to predict when and how it'd all go wrong, because he knew it would.

"Yes, not exactly, because she was a French whore, and I'm not entirely sure that you're entirely sure to which 'she' you were referring, probably, sub-consciously, both your mother and the mystery, heart breaking woman. So to answer your…one, two…_fourth_ question…because she didn't like you all that much. And is there anyone you look up to as a parental figure?"

For the second time that night she'd called his mother a French whore; he felt like he should have been more offended, but then, he pretty much always thought of Madeleine as a whore.

He realized she was waiting for him to answer her question. "Yes, Ann, she gave me a place to stay and looked after me…" Erik concluded it was most likely a bad idea to reveal himself further.

"Right, Ann, whatever, sounds nice. So, let's say you, rather idiotically, jump into a pond and get bitten by a gator; you spend the next month or so in the hospital and when you finally go home you keep having these dreams in which an alligator eats your friends and then you, and every night your grand…_Ann_, wakes you up from this nightmare; not only this, but Ann has raised you and loved you, and taught you every thing you know and one night he doesn't wake you up and you walk into h…her bedroom only to find her dead as a door knob on the floor. Then, would you, my pessimistic friend, consider that a bitch slap?"

Damn she could talk fast. He wasn't entirely sure how to even begin. Luckily, he didn't have to; Lee wasn't finished.

"And you know, I was engaged once. Yeah, me, not really the marrying type, huh? Two years we were engaged; and you know what? Sometimes things just don't work out, no matter how much we both wanted them to, but that's not the point. The point is, I can sit here and sulk about how traumatizing it was to find the dead body of my grandfather, or how disenchanting the end of my engagement was, or I can remember my grandfather for loving me, for the things he taught me, and my failed relationship for the good times, and enjoy this pleasant evening with remarkable company. I'm not going to beat you, and you should know by now that I won't leave you to die, whatever the hell that really means. So just enjoy your goddamn Mahi Mahi and have some more wine."

She poured another glass but drank it for herself. He was quite dumbfounded, not even Ann was bold enough to speak to him like that.

Maybe she was right. Lee was right about most things, wise beyond her years, although he suspected much of her wisdom she inherited from her grandfather

Erik actually took the time to look up at the sky.

Dusk had turned to night, stars sparkling iridescence, a lonely pale moon looking down on the peoples of the world, dark water rippling on top the backs of dolphins, and Lee, draining the bottle of wine, taking it all in with utmost respect and gratitude. It was obvious how much she loved her home.

She looked out over the water and he studied her silently, her lips curved downward, somehow softening the stern line of resolve set by her jaw. He noticed then how tired she appeared, exhausted; it was the way she'd looked when she walked into Chrissy's apartment, mere hours prior.

How she'd hidden the dark circles beneath her eyes, he'd never know, but until that moment, he hadn't noticed them at all.

Like the night before, when she'd mourned the world through an alto-saxophone, she was allowing him a rare glimpse of herself, unmarred by her usual air of confident invincibility.

And amongst her scowling lecture had been words of admiration, true compliments he'd be a fool to ignore, though ignorance did have its blissful attributes. No one else would be able to chide him in such an insightful way. He owed her a night of fun.

"Christine, her name is Christine and she ran off with a little, aristocratic twit whose only talent is that he can miraculously stick his head up his own ass. But to be fair, she was a bit lacking when it came to personality, and he does have simply immaculate hair. I'm actually quite jealous."

Lee took her gaze away from the water, a sly grin played lazily upon her lips, her eyes slightly glazed. "Can't be as _immaculate_ as yours. See, this is what I like about you, extreme mood swings _and_ a sense of humor. It makes for a very interesting night. I appreciate that more than you'll ever know." She laughed joyfully and finished off yet another glass.

"So what's next?"

"Let's watch The Killer Shrews."

Erik lifted his eyebrows inquisitively, but if she saw this gesture, she ignored it. He couldn't keep comparing her to Christine; more specifically, he couldn't keep attributing Christine's faults to Lee.

It occurred to him that somewhere long the way she'd decided they were truly friends. And that was more than Christine had ever given him.

* * *

Merlot made Lee happy. It made her _very_ happy. So what if her teeth were stained purple? So what if she'd spilled wine all over her white shirt? And so what if she couldn't stop staring at the man in front of her?

None of it mattered as long as she maintained enough self-control to kick his ass in a game of pool, two could play the button game and her chest was much more distracting.

"_Merde_." The cue ball rolled frantically into the left corner pocket. "Could you stop leaning over the goddamn pool table like that?"

A gloved hand sub-consciously raced through his dark hair. He didn't like to lose any more than she did a fact which, to Lee, made victory so very sweet.

"Like what?" She asked innocently, watching his sensual lips suckle the bottle of Chianti. Prying herself away from the sight, she easily landed the nine ball into a side pocket. It left her with only the eight.

"You're cheating." He sounded rather childish; it made her laugh.

"How am I cheating?"

"You…you're bu…you just are." The scowl sat comfortably upon his face, a usual expression for the masked man, no doubt.

"It's not my fault you can't _focus_ on the game."

"Fine, just wait." He stomped to her piano and practically threw himself onto the bench. Elegant, black leather fingers were brought to life, blending perfectly with the ebony and ivory keyboard.

He was good, but it wasn't enough to keep her from sinking the shot. Lee aimed carefully. "Eight ball, corner pocket." She tapped her cue on the specific corner and realigned herself.

That was when his voice hit her. Deep, powerful, husky with emotion, without a doubt the most amazing tenor she'd ever heard.

The tomb scene from Aida; short, there was no one to take up the duet, but dramatically enchanting. It only made him more attractive.

He kept playing, though his song had changed, softly he sang in French, words she was too star struck to comprehend.

Lee could wait. After all, the eight ball wasn't going anywhere, and somewhere was half a bottle of wine, waiting to be consumed.

Apollo had certainly given Erik his blessing. The hypnotic quality of his voice, raw with purity, captivated her more than she cared to admit. She had the strongest urge to kiss him. Absentmindedly, she wondered if that was how he'd felt when he'd heard her play.

Surely not. She was good, no doubt about it; Lee had seen grown men cry after hearing her play the blues, and the countless hours of practice she'd put in during her youth could not be disregarded by modesty, but she couldn't induce a lustful trance.

She was only fooling herself. He wouldn't stop until she took the shot; the real question was did she want him to stop?

The eight ball, perhaps aware of her dilemma, slid gracefully into the pocket. "Your cheap attempt to distract me has failed. You lose."

He stopped playing in order to frown at her. "You cheated."

"You've already tried that, now, as for our bet…"

"What bet? I never agreed to anything."

"Oh go to…" Suddenly Lee was flat on her ass, and she'd been walking so well. Erik's laughter clung to the air around her; even it had an alluring, musical quality. The culprit presented herself shyly, seductively sweeping Erik's legs, a lingering tail. "V.W. you little bitch. Why don't you just take that cat with you?"

He scratched the cat behind the ears. "Good girl, Virginia."

Lee rolled her eyes and stood up slowly, a sharp pain momentarily debilitating her left leg. "Shit."

She felt his eyes boring into her, as she struggled not to limp, and plopped down onto the couch. "I believe we have a movie to watch."

It was fortunate that she'd already put the DVD into the player, getting up again might have proven too much for her.

He sat down beside of her, giving her plenty of room. Lee felt like she was in middle school again, watching a movie with Timmy down the street, awkward as hell and wondering what it was like to hold hands with a boy.

She could still smell him, the seductive musk, and feel the warmth coming off of him. _The heat of an impassioned lover…_

She threw the thought away as quickly as it had come, though as the movie progressed her mind lingered on the mystery more and more…What _would_ those divine lips feel like, pressed tightly against her own? And how would those slender hands feel, free from gloved prisons, roaming her skin?

Lee doubted she'd ever find out.

* * *

_Eyes I dare not meet in dreams..._ line taken completely out of context from The Hallow Men, another of Eliot's works 

The Killer Shrews is about giant, man eating shrews, actually, coon hounds wearing rags, but anyway, it's great.


	7. Trials and Tombstones

So, I haven't done this in a while, but I don't own anything. Really, nothing, not Phantom, not The Beatles or the song of theirs I use, and wow, I don't know if any of y'all realize this, but it is really hard to function without a left shift key. Mine fell off, and typing like this is just awkward. Sorry for the delay in updates.

* * *

"_You only think you've let go. You only think you understand. Poor Kyrie, you'll have to dive in." His voice was its usual deep resonance…profound wisdom. The greatest kindness and empathy, always beneath the stern morality; his form, tall and rigid, proud, sunk slowly into the black water._

_She saw the alligator circling like a shark, waiting for the kill. _

_"What would you think if I sang out of tune?"_

_Erik's voice teased the lobe of her ear, sending shivers down her spine and simultaneous heat throughout her body. His lips brushed the nape of her neck, and like a surreal cloak, his arms draped around her waist._

_She leaned into him, relishing the feeling of his secure body. He took her shoulders and turned her to face him. His eyes were wild orbs of enthrallment; she couldn't look away._

"_Would you stand up and walk out on me?" A glorious hand cupped the side of her face and drew her into him. Vaguely, she tried to nod. _

_His lips hit hers and came to life with the fire of Phoenix. She'd never experienced such passion, and found her hands wandering through his thick, dark hair, or across his exposed chest, desperately seeking more._

_He broke off the kiss and leaned toward her ear. "I need somebody to love."_

_She remembered her grandfather, and pulled away from him, running to the water's edge. "He didn't let me go under. I let him die."_

_Erik's strong arms pulled her away. "He told you himself, Kyrie, you have to let go."_

She awoke with a start; the damp ground soaked through the seat her blue jeans, and her hands were darkened by earth.

Beauregard stared at her from mere feet away, worried about his vulnerable mistress. She smiled at him reassuringly.

She glanced at the sky, dawn had yet to break; if she didn't leave right away, she would never make it back downtown in time for the trial. Awendaw was a good forty minute drive.

Lee looked solemnly at her grandfather's tombstone. William David Lee, husband, father, hero, who could have known that the great man had a heart condition?

She'd never fallen asleep out there before. Though her slumber had been short, it was nonetheless unnerving. That wasn't the first dream she'd had about Erik.

"Next year, Granddaddy."

October the fourth was, inevitably, a bad day for Lee. Had she a choice in the matter, she would have opted to take a sick day. But the case she'd been working was not as hopeless as foreseen, and the defense was sadistically dragging things out, calling far too many character witnesses.

Fortunately when it came to character, the witnesses called by the defense were sketchy at best, and Lee had no problem exposing their moral fiber, or lack thereof, to the jury.

The problem was with the defendant himself. Snider, the bastard, was smart, smarter than his defense attorney, and had a way with words. He possessed a certain charm, which was not lost on the jury. The twenty something blonde in seat ten was a goner for sure; there was nothing Lee could do but rely on the other jurors to sway her.

And then there was the mother. The bitch sided with her rapist boyfriend over her own daughter. It made Lee sick, and if it were up to her, they'd both be thrown in jail.

The trial dragged on. The DA grilled them during deliberation, and the past three days of sleepless contemplation finally caught up with her.

Things were blurred together. Saturday night was the last time she remembered sleeping for more than two hours. She woke up Sunday, still on the couch, but the heat keeping her bare feet warm came, not from her endearing masked man, but from her loyal canine.

He'd started a pot of coffee before leaving, and left her a sketch of a Gladiolus, she didn't know which species. Beside the drawing, in script nearly as inelegant as her own, he'd scribbled a short note.

_Wonderful coffee maker, horrible coffee, really, Jack Daniels flavored? I believe you have a problem. I'll be in touch. –Erik_

That was Sunday. Now, Wednesday, and he still hadn't been in touch.

Except when she did sleep, and then he was there, in her dreams, singing the most random songs, and tempting her with soft touches, or…that morning…_kissing_ her.

So her sub-conscious was trying to tell her something.

She was suddenly jerked from her thoughts and pulled behind a Corinthian column.

"Cicero had nothing compared to you." His voice was soft and sweet, beneath the flattery was respect.

Lee looked at him, appreciating the sight of his well fitting garb. She was becoming more and more attracted to him, and it wasn't just the clothes. He was…sexy in a James Bond way, and more handsome and suave than the best Bond. Well, in certain situations any way. Sometimes he was awkward, uncertain, and yet, cute.

"Lee, are you alright?"

The concern in his voice surprised her.

"I'm fine. Long day, you know?"

He didn't look away from her. "Would you like to get something to eat?" He paused, and she saw something shift in his unique eyes. "Maybe some take out?"

If she spent the night at home, by herself, she'd drink herself into oblivion. If she spent the night, at home, with him, she'd drink herself into oblivion. It only made her feel guilty. That wasn't the way to honor her grandfather's memory.

"Let's chill at your place. Do I really look that bad?"

"Well, I…you don't…you look ill."

"Yeah, Kirk, the DA, put it a little more bluntly. I believe his exact words were, 'Jones, you look like shit, but you did good. Take the rest of the week off and get some goddamn sleep.'"

"You really were amazing in there. And I thought you were too young to be a good lawyer." His grin was sly as ever and brightened her mood.

"You don't know how young I am." She noticed his eyes widen as he shifted his weight, looking behind her.

"Lee." The twins were in the habit of speaking in unison.

She turned to face them. "BS."

Beatrix was beaming. "Lee, who's your friend?"

"Oh, BS this is Erik. Erik, this is Beatrix, and Sam. Would you believe that they're twins?"

He shook their hands but it was blatantly obvious how uncomfortable he'd become. "Pleasure."

"Anderson, where the hell did he go? Oh well, Anderson thinks we should celebrate your success." Sam eyed Erik carefully, playing the part of the protective brother.

Lee smiled. "Saturday, my place. I'll barbeque some chickens, Chrissy will do up some green tomatoes, and Ramon can fix the spicy stuff. Bring some beer, and not that watered down shit y'all normally drink."

"Great. What are you two doing tonight?" Beatrix was more than a little nosey. "I mean, if y'all wanted to get something to eat, we were thinking of heading down to the Boat House."

"You know I don't eat there; they don't serve sweet tea. It should be against the law not to serve sweet tea in Charleston."

"High Cotton?"

It was tempting. The bartender at High Cotton made a mean Alabama slammer. "Maybe some other time. I'm not in the mood to eat out."

"Fine, we'll see you Saturday. It was nice to meet you, Erik."

"Yes, it's good to know that Lee does have some sort of life."

They smiled politely and trotted down the courthouse steps.

"They seem…nice." He still looked uncomfortable.

"They are. Now, I'm thinking Chopsticks, the Chinese joint, not the piano bar, and then Bones is new tonight, so is South Park."

His expression eased and he chuckled. "Whatever you want."

* * *

Erik kept staring at her. It made her nervous, beneath his scrutinizing eye, _and when I am pinned and wriggling on a wall…_How _should_ she begin?

They'd eaten their won-ton soup, egg rolls, and Mongolian beef in a comfortable silence, sitting, not too close, on his leather sofa, in front of a diminutive TV. Other than a concert grand piano, taking up the entire first floor of his charming, albeit typical, Tradd Street house-not just any house on Tradd, but Ducatt's house, circa 1739-the sofa was the only furniture.

When he rose to clean up the mess and waved off her protests to assist, she took the opportunity to stretch out a bit. Nestling her head on the arm rest, she closed her eyes and waited for him to return.

He returned, and that's when the staring commenced.

"Are you sure you're alright?" His voice was barely above a whisper.

"I'll be fine. Don't let me go home, and for Christ sake, don't let me drink anything, and I'll be fine."

His curiosity was obviously sparked. "Why don't you want to be at home?"

She didn't really like to talk about it, but Lee felt she owed him some sort of explanation. "Today, the memories in that house only serve to depress me, and I find that it's incredibly shallow for someone as well off as I am to be depressed."

"Well, you certainly look depressed. Have you slept at all this week?"

She let out a heartless snicker and shook her head softly. "Not much. I've just got a lot going on." Not to mention, the few minutes of sleep she had attained were filled with dreams of him.

He reached out toward her and carefully picked up her feet. While Lee sat in utter shock, he removed her shoes and placed her feet in his lap. "I…tennis players have ugly feet." She immediately berated herself for being a complete moron.

"Do you play tennis?" He was rubbing the sole of her right foot a little too lightly.

"I…used…" Lee could no longer contain herself; she was a very ticklish person and soon reflexes took over.

Erik rubbed his jaw after disdainfully dropping the offending foot. "You could have warned me."

"I tried."

"No. You said that tennis players have ugly feet. Perhaps my English has failed me, but I wasn't under the impression that that sentence should mean, I'm ticklish and will kick you."

She found herself smiling and yawned lazily. "Sorry." It was a sincere gesture, though it confused her immensely. She didn't think he thought of her in a way that included a foot rub.

Lee glanced up and found Erik staring at her again. A distraught expression on his face, he was clearly trying to figure out what to do. His concern was touching. "Why don't you go lay down, and I'll wake you up when Bones comes on?"

"I doubt I'll be able to sleep."

He was looking at her feet again, still in his lap. "They're not ugly."

"Awww, you know something Erik? You are sweet enough to be the sugar in my tea."

He blushed and looked away. "That was the perhaps the corniest, most original pick up line I've ever heard, especially considering how damn sweet that syrup you call tea is; I think I'll use it sometime."

"That's ok; I know I'm not that sweet." She shot him an award winning wink.

"No, that's why I wouldn't use it on you."

"You're _still_ mad at me for kicking your ass the other night?"

He opened his mouth to say something but stopped suddenly, and gave her a look that was absolutely devilish. Without warning he grabbed her feet and tickled viciously.

Lee kicked and squirmed and laughed uncontrollably, but he was relentless. Finally, she managed to sit up enough to reach his side.

Erik really didn't seem like the ticklish type, but the man was full of surprises.

* * *

He really didn't know what had compelled him to pick up her feet in the first place. She just, she looked so _tired_…and upset; he had to do _something_ to cheer her up, and what woman could refuse a foot rub?

Apparently a ticklish one.

And then she was touching him, _touching_ him, in such a familiar way, such a normal way, like any couple. Heat rushed through his body as he became completely aware of her proximity, and the feel of her small hands, mercilessly digging into his side.

He couldn't remember ever laughing like that.

When Christine had touched him, lightly on the shoulder, before ripping off his mask in an act of ultimate degradation…He could remember the stirrings in his stomach and groin at the feel of her soft, elegant hands, hands so different from the ones currently assaulting him. And yet the stirrings were there, increased ten fold, because unlike Christine, Lee's hands were not cold tools of stone.

She stopped her affront and looked at him thoughtfully. An expression which confused him slowly spread across her face. Dark circles marred the skin beneath her eyes, and her olive skin somehow looked pale.

"I could sing you to sleep." The words slipped out of his mouth like spilled milk.

"Do you know Swing Low, Sweet Chariot?" She had a far off look to her eyes.

He'd never even heard of it, no doubt some colloquial song. "I'm sorry."

Lee smiled sadly. "That's alright." He wanted to know what was really wrong. Normally she was simultaneously serious and light hearted, but all day she'd looked like someone had killed her dog, and her answers thus far had been curiously vague.

"Is Beauregard alright?"

His question was met with a pair of raised eyebrows. "Yes, he hangs out with Chrissy when I'm not home. Why do you ask?"

Why did he ask? It was her business, and however minute her true age, she was certainly old enough to take care of herself. "You just look so…distraught." And yet he kept speaking.

She sighed heavily and began to diligently study his small TV. "My grandfather died on October fourth, and I'm getting sentimental in my old age."

Erik didn't really know what to say so he chuckled and thought of something humorus. "I'm old, Lee. You're just a baby."

"You're kidding, right? You're what, five years older than me? Thirty two is _not_ old, especially for a man."

"How did you…Never mind. Damn google."

She was grinning again; it made him feel good, which had to be a bad thing.

"Naw, woman's intuition. And twenty-six, going on twenty-seven, is _not_ a baby. According to Melanie I only have about four good years left in me; if I don't find myself a man by the day I turn thirty, well then I'm doomed to become the creepy cat lady." Her expression suddenly deflated, and once again she looked at him in an almost unsettling way. "The Long and Winding Road?"

He nodded while eyeing her carefully. The woman was a goddess. Not Aphrodite by any means, but the essence of Athena. The "power suit" she wore gave her an appearance of sheer intimidation, and he had watched, in delight, as the defendant faltered under her penetrating gaze and baited tongue. Fearless and ruthless, she was a perfect warrior.

His thoughts were interrupted by her movements. She stretched out carefully and closed her eyes, unable to continue her façade of invincibility. It made her no less beautiful.

Before singing he took a moment to consider the song she'd requested. It was definitely a depressing one, his cup of tea, or, glass of tea. They didn't drink cups of tea in Charleston. But he had to wonder why she picked it. The song wasn't about mourning a death, but the unattainable, love, inevitable and unrequited. It might as well have been written about her...but never for her.

Regardless, he took a deep breath and began.

"_The long and winding road,_

_That leads to your door,_

_Will never disappear_

_I've seen that road before_

_It always leads me here_

_Lead me to your door,_

_The wild and windy night_

_That the rain washed away_

_Has left a pool of tears_

_Crying for the day_

_Why leave me standing here_

_Let me know the way_

_Many times I've been alone_

_And many times I've cried_

_Any way, you'll never know_

_The many ways I've tried_

_But still they lead me back_

_To the long winding road_

_You left me standing here_

_A long, long time ago_

_Don't leave me standing here_

_Lead me to your door"_

He'd watched her the whole time, her eyes slowly, but steadily lowering, head drooping; she was falling into what he hoped to be a peaceful sleep.

"I wouldn't, you know." Her voiced came out muffled, words slurred.

"You wouldn't what, Lee?"

She picked her head up a little. "I wouldn't walk out on you, but I don't think you'd ever sing out of key." Her eye lids closed and she rolled over to her side.

Erik was more than mildly surprised by her comment, but actually knew the song to which she referred.

As he watched her breathing become more and more shallow, he fought the urge to reach out and touch her, but it was a losing battle. Before he knew what he was doing, Erik was on his knees, by her side, his hand cupped her cheek and he could have sworn she leaned into it.

He withdrew his hand, but it had a mind of its own and wandered to the bun entrapping her hair, releasing it with all the grace his talented fingers had mastered. She stirred slightly, and half-opened those piercing eyes.

Erik softly pulled her twisted curls as she drifted into sleep once again.

It was suddenly very important that he get her a blanket. He kept his house cold; it reminded him of home, and she didn't like the cold.

The house reminded him of home, something Lee picked up on immediately, jokingly reiterating on his masochism. But she was right. Paris was mostly bad memories, and his new residence was just another way to torture himself with those memories.

He placed the small down blanket over her and pulled another strand of curl. Saturday night she had practically driven him wild.

And that was cheating. Unbuttoning her shirt, stained and wet from wine, and leaning over the pool table like that. It was cheating plain and simple.

He smiled at the memory. Erik had fun that night, despite their rocky dinner. He hadn't wanted to leave the next morning, but the music forming in his head needed to be written out and played. It was the least depressing piece he'd ever composed, and was becoming a rather comical opera.

An opera featuring a main character who ran around shooting random things out of trees, and had frequent cravings for alligator tail. It would probably be his worst work ever, but so far his most enjoyable to compose.

Which reminded him, he needed to call Ann. Erik had been avoiding the commanding woman's phone calls for quite some time. He knew she was worried, and felt somewhat guilty about leaving like he had. And Ann knew how to lay on the guilt.

He sighed. It could wait. He had to figure out what to tell her anyway; somehow, Erik figured the trying to kill himself part wasn't going to go over well.

But he'd barely even thought of repeating the act since. No, Lee had kept him somewhat preoccupied.

He could settle for being friends. Nothing more, she couldn't want anything more.

Erik took his gaze away from the floor. His eyes settled on Lee's sleeping form and as he took in her rare beauty, Erik accepted the fact that he was lying to himself. He'd never been the kind of man to settle for less.

He saw her hand clutch at the leather and a small moan escaped her slightly parted lips. "Erik."

Even in her sleep his name rolled off her tongue in an exquisite manner. It made him feel _wanted_.

She was dreaming about him, and _not_ a nightmare, no, something far more pleasing.

What would she do if he leaned down and kissed her? Would she awake, wide-eyed and fearful, screaming rape and murder? Or would her hands entangle themselves in his hair, and roam his anxious body?

Erik found himself smiling at the thought, remembering how she'd shuddered when he'd whispered into her ear several nights before. It hadn't been a shiver of fear.

He opened his eyes and looked at her pensively, cursing himself for allowing his imagination to carry him so far. She was the unattainable.

No woman could want him in such a way, least of all her. She could have any man in the world.

Lee sat up suddenly, a dazed look about her face. "Your couch is as uncomfortable as mine." She readjusted herself and placed her head next to his right thigh.

He allowed himself to play with her hair, as she continued to sleep.

* * *

Another Eliot allusion in there; I just love his work 


	8. Interlude

Ok this one is a little short, and from an entirely different POV, but I'll have another long chapter up soon. Oh, and of course, I don't own anything. Big thanks to all of my reviewers.

* * *

There was a strange man standing on the sidewalk, in front of Jones' house. Blake eyed him suspiciously as they drove up, 1999 Dodge Caravan, white, humiliating parked behind the black Corvette.

A hell of a car, he ogled it enviously with his son, while the man dressed in black, Johnny Cash, continued to obliviously twiddle his thumbs.

"Hey mister, is this your car?"

His son's voice was very macho; Blake was infinitely proud of the fourteen year old.

The man turned around slowly; a mask sat sternly on half of his face. Jones' mystery man.

She'd called him at four o'clock that morning; Blake had never heard her sound so flustered, usually she was cool about everything, but not that day. It wasn't the fact that she'd just shot a dying man out of a tree that got her so flabbergasted, no, _that_ wasn't something she'd freak out about. She woke him up at four to ask if it was "kosher" for her to visit this guy in the hospital.

"Oui, er…yes."

Phil nodded and grinned. "It's awesome."

The unmasked side of the man's face lightened. "Apparently it could be better; I've recently been informed it has the wrong transmission."

Amy stepped around the driver's side of their van with Allie on her hip. Blake looked at them fondly, ignoring the conversation taking place between his son and Johnny Cash.

He would never cease to be amazed by his wife's fiery red hair and cool green eyes, traits she'd obviously passed down to their son. But Allie, she was a spitting image of her father. Dirty blonde hair, long legs, and light brown eyes, his little girl was going to be a real heart breaker some day.

"I can't drive yet. I don't even have my permit."

The man chuckled. "That never stopped me, but I suppose things are different here."

Blake decided it was time to introduce himself; he stepped toward the man and extended a hand. "Blake Anderson."

"Erik." Erik's handshake was firm but not intimidating.

"BS told me about you." Actually, they'd called him immediately after meeting the man, and left out the mask part. Not that it bothered him; he just thought Jones had met someone _not_ suicidal. "This is my son Philip, my wife Amy, and daughter Allie; I take it you've never been to a party at Lee's?"

"No, and I was wandering, why are we here so early?"

"Eleven is when they bring out the early bird specials, Bloody Marys. Jones is a practiced drunk, but watch out, she can get…rowdy. If she starts to sing cover your ears immediately and do something drastic to get her to stop. Supposedly she's keeping this one family oriented. I think her cousins are going to be here."

"I didn't think they got along too well."

"They don't; the best strategy is to ignore the whole lot of them."

"OUTLANDER!!" Phil yelled suddenly.

"Malachai! Out of the corn fields tonight? Don't slaughter my friends." Jones approached quickly and gave Phil a rough pat on the back.

Blake watched his son blush and his smile go wide with pride. He had a terrible crush on the woman; Blake often teased her about it, but she was a good sport, and didn't humor Phil too much.

He turned his gaze toward Jones and caught her staring at Erik. He'd never seen her look at anyone like that.


	9. Tequila and Star Wars

_He couldn't breathe. Something was strangling him and someone was laughing. A biting pain assaulted his back; he couldn't see; he couldn't breathe…_

_Not knowing what else to do he called out, begging with his assailant. "Mais je ne veux pas mourir."_

_But his voice was stifled and strained. No one would have heard him._

_"Erik…"_

"Erik. Come on, wake up."

His eyes fluttered open and he immediately felt for his mask. It was still on his face, hiding his sinister deformity. He then felt around his neck, finding that his shirt had gone MIA.

So had his pants…

"Erik, Christ, you scared the piss out of me."

In nothing but his mask and boxers, he felt incredibly unguarded, and refused to meet her cold gaze. What would she think of him? A grown man, still immobilized by his nightmares?

"Erik. Are. You. Ok?"

He nodded his head affirmatively but doubted that she'd buy his act. Lee read people too well; she read him too well.

He heard her sigh and felt her get off the bed, moving across the room to shut a window. He didn't remember coming to her room. He didn't remember anything after they started watching Star Wars.

Blake had underestimated her. A practiced drunk for sure, but she'd restrained herself, while her friends dove head first into senselessness. Someone had to look after them, after all, and she wasn't nearly as irresponsible as she liked to make her cousins think.

But it had been a great night, at least the parts he remembered. Parties weren't exactly his thing, and hers was all inclusive. He'd never seen so many people from so many different walks of life all in the same place, attorneys, cops, bums, doctors, truck drivers, and all of them wanted her barbeque chicken, Chrissy's fried green tomatoes, and Ramon's pico di giallo.

All those people coming through her house, staring at him, ignoring him, but she'd made sure he was properly distracted, and before he knew it, Erik was playing sets with their strange little band, and her group of friends had readily become his group of friends.

"Look, I enjoy drinking games as much as the next person, but taking a shot of Tequila every time someone says The Force in Star Wars will only get you into trouble. Trust me, I know from experience."

He noticed she did that a lot, poked fun or made light of a serious situation. Her way of trying to fix something that made her uncomfortable as well.

Blake told him that she had fallen for him, that it was written all over her face.

"Look, I know how lonely it is…not to have anyone to wake you up from your nightmares, but…Erik, I'll wake you up. I promise." Her voice was barely above a whisper and she looked at him with a degree of apprehension.

He realized he still hadn't spoken to her, and contemplated her concern, wondering, for the millionth time, on the nature of her true intentions.

That wasn't something she'd just say, and she wasn't the kind of person who'd play games like that. She honestly cared about him.

"I know, Lee." Her expression lightened subtly. "What happened during and after Star Wars?"

A grin graced her presumably delicious lips. "You cried like a baby when Obie Wan died." She crawled up onto the bed and sat, Indian style, beside of him. "About halfway through you, Anderson, and the twins decided to play Twister without a Twister mat, and take a shot every time one of you fell down. I video taped that, by-the-way. You and Sam then proceeded to tell me that I was, and I quote, one hot piece of ass, after which Anderson and the twins threw up all over my porch, and you wandered into my bedroom, and opened the window."

His face had to have been a deep shade of crimson. "Did I really…"

"Cry when Obie Wan died? No, I made that up."

"Oh."

He had rather hoped she'd made up the "one hot piece of ass" part as well. Erik could think of more…_romantic_ compliments to bestow upon her.

"Ok, it was all Sam, you just stood beside of him and nodded in agreement."

"Oh." That wasn't quite as bad.

"Let's see, it's five thirty…I bet Law and Order is on. Mind if I crash here?" She shot him a wink and smiled brightly. "Maybe I should use my sad puppy dog eyes, seems to work for Anderson's kid."

"Allie, her name is Allie." Allie, Blake's seven year old, had spent the duration of her time at Lee's soirée, clinging to his jacket. This was all because, at her request, he'd played the Blue's Clues theme song. Now she wanted him to give her piano lessons.

"Yeah, sure." Lee, apparently, didn't have much patience or know-how when it came to children, even less than he. Allie had confessed to him that she didn't want piano lessons from Lee because "that lady" looked at her funny and messed up her hair.

But Allie was just adorable. Not once did he catch her staring, nor did she ever ask about the mask. She was as easy going and likable as her father, with whom Erik was becoming fast friends.

Blake was closer to Erik in age, actually, a few years older. They formed a tight coalition against the twenty-somethings of their group, and on top of it all, Blake gave Erik valuable insights on the topic of Lee Jones.

"I guess I can vacate to the couch." He nervously put Blake's theory to the test. "Since this is your bed and all."

She shivered and pulled the covers up around her. "Both of my sofas are occupied, as is the pool table, besides, you match my comforter."

He could hardly believe what she was implying. "You…you mean you want to sleep…you want to…"

"Sleep in this bed with you, yes. If you don't mind, that is."

Actually, Blake's hypothesis, as well as that of the twins, was that if Erik were to grab her and kiss her, she'd kiss him back _and_ moan. They even had a bet on it involving Blake's mini-van, and Erik's vette. He just didn't have the gall to go through with it.

"Do you snore?"

She shot him one of her patented don't-mess-with-me looks. "You should know."

"Hell, you're already hogging the covers."

She threw down the comforter and got out of the bed. "Fine, I'll sleep on the kitchen floor."

This was the banter he lived for. "You do match the counter tops."

"I can't believe it; chivalry really is dead. You'd actually allow me to sleep on the kitchen floor."

"This is the twenty-first century, darling."

"And I thought you were such a gentleman. Wait, no, it's more than that; a man has never turned down a chance to jump into bed with me. I must be getting fat. Of course, I've gained three pounds since I met you. I disgust myself." She dropped down to the floor and started doing crunches. "You insinuated that I was a hot piece of ass. You _lied_."

"Would you just get back in this bed and watch…" He looked at the TV. "The TV guide channel with me?"

"Well, since you asked so nicely…How about I get back in the bed and go to sleep?"

"Deal."

He couldn't help but grin as he watched her climb back into the bed. She turned to face him and smiled; it lit up her face and contrasted drastically to her emotionless eyes. Erik would always be entranced by those deep, Hematite orbs.

Maybe Blake was right.

Lee scooted over and silently placed her head on the nook of his shoulder. "You're warm."

"You're cold?" Erik was surprised he could speak; the feeling of her snuggled up against him was almost overwhelming.

"Not anymore."

Her hand found its way onto his bare chest, creating a burning, yearning sensation throughout his body, and he, for the first time in his life, confidently put his arms around her, enclosing her in a longing embrace.

"I never thanked you for shooting me out of that tree."

"First time in my life I ever went out looking for ghosts and actually found one. Don't thank me for that; it was more for myself than for you. And I came out on top in the long run."

It took him several moments to get that she was making a joke. "We could switch, if you'd prefer."

"No, I'm a take charge kind of gal."

"Do you still think of me as a ghost?" It was important that she view him as a man, tangible.

"Oh no, only living beings get drunk and make complete asses out of themselves. Somewhere along the line you became a man…a thirsty man with an affinity for Tequila."

He rested his chin on the top of her head and fought back silent tears. Whether or not she'd fallen for him, he'd fallen for her, fast and hard. Erik decided that he was going to enjoy it while he could.

They'd spent the past couple of days together, doing touristy things. She'd taken out to Patriot's Point, across to Fort Sumter, and had even borrowed Blake's john boat to take him fishing. Erik had never been fishing before.

He could tell by the way she was breathing that she'd fallen asleep, armed with this knowledge, he placed a gentle kiss on her forehead, fascinated by the peaceful feeling that had engulfed him, and mesmerized by her beauty.

* * *

Lee woke up with a stiff shoulder. Erik still had his arms wrapped around her. She knew Anderson had figured it out and said something to him, so she'd decided to up the ante.

It'd worked, but not quite as well as she had hoped. The man was just too damn insecure. He was going to have to take the next step; in the meantime, aside from a sore shoulder, she wouldn't mind waking up in his arms every morning.

Lee had thought hard on all this during her days off, days she spent with him. Once he got over himself, Erik was a lot of fun to be around. They were on the same wave length, which is why she knew her friends would bond with him quickly. She was especially pleased with how he and Anderson got along.

And then there was the physical attraction. The man was gorgeous, mask be damned; there was no denying it. If he could ever trust her…it was his insecurity that kept getting in her way. If at any point he decided that she was with him because she pitied him, then he'd resent her.

Lee had her own worries about things, insecurities, mostly in the name _Christine_. Mutual or not, it'd taken her a while to get over Gray, and several dates had ended poorly after their spilt, simply because she'd unfairly judged her suitors, assigning them Gray's faults when they had perfectly good faults of their own.

It was one thing to be compared to another, but to be _transformed_ into another…no man was worth it.

She really wanted to get up and brush her teeth, but Lee wasn't as insensitive as she liked to pretend. He needed to wake up and see her there, know that she'd stayed with him.

Luckily, someone started beating on her door. "Lee, the boys want to go to Waffle House."

Beatrix was nosey, but not nearly as audacious as her brother, or Anderson. Neither of them would have knocked.

"Sounds good, B; be out in a second."

Erik stirred beside of her, releasing her from his strong grip to stretch his long arms. "What is Waffle House?" He seemed very pleased with himself.

"It's a place for alcoholics to consume substandard food."

"Why are we going?"

"Well, because we're alcoholics, and there aren't that many places to get breakfast around here, especially on the weekends because Jack's is closed. But, it's really just tradition for us, although normally, we'd be going around four in the morning." She liked how inquisitive he was about American middle class culture.

Lee got up and wandered into the bathroom. She brushed her teeth quickly and got into the shower.

Erik was lying on top of her recently made bed when she reentered the bedroom. He'd managed to find his clothes, she noted with disappointment. He had a very nice body, and she rather enjoyed seeing him shirtless.

"I have a spare tooth brush." He nodded and got off the bed, silently venturing into the bathroom.

Lee sipped her coffee carefully; it wasn't even warm. She sighed and glared at the man at the bar; Erik hadn't seemed to notice the idiot staring at him.

The man at the bar curled his upper lip in disgust. She hated disrespectful people. Lee shot him the bird.

"Let's get the hell out of here." He looked like he was going to get up and confront her.

"We just got here." Anderson was quickly figuring out the situation. "But the coffee is cold. I can't tolerate cold coffee; I told you we should have gone to the one in Mount Pleasant."

He threw a couple bills onto the table and stood up; the rest of the group followed suite. Lee brought up the rear, in order to deal with any trouble.

"Oh, I know, let's go to the beach."

Lee moaned; Beatrix _always_ wanted to go to the beach. "How about no."

"Come on, Lee, we could play volley ball."

"You three puked all over my porch and _I_ had to clean it up at four thirty this morning, so no, I'm really not in the mood for volley ball." Erik slid closer to her; they were sitting in the back seat of Sam's Tahoe. She waited for him to make a move.

"You're no fun anymore."

"Piss off." His fingers interlaced with hers.

Anderson cleared his throat. "Do we have a gig this week?"

"Yes, Thursday at Fish. Low key."

"Erik, you should play with us."

"Yeah, Easy E, you're like, totally the shit."

Erik didn't take his eyes off her. "Sam, at what point did you start calling me Easy E?"

"Like, three seconds ago."

"Oh." She watched him bite his lower lip in thought. "I suppose."

Lee smiled at him brightly, and he returned the expression. Perfect chemistry.


	10. Tourists

Well, here's a short one after quite the hiatus. Thank you to all who have reviewed, I'm sorry I haven't gotten back to y'all personally, yet. The end of the semester is quickly approaching, and with it various papers and difficult tests. Really, don't ever take biological anthropology. Stupid canine fossa...but I digress. Here's a bit of drama, and even more to come, whenever that might be.

* * *

Ann Giry looked at her daughter nervously before knocking on the imposing oak door. They could hear music coming from the inside, but it wasn't anything Erik would listen to.

She only spoken to him once since he'd left months ago, and was quite frankly worried about him. She was afraid he'd done something…drastic.

Christine shared in her sentiments. The girl was guilt ridden, and had somehow talked her husband into searching for his rival.

Ann glanced back to the car where Raoul, Christine, and Phillipe waited. Had she known she'd be baby sitting the entire De Changy family, Ann would have reconsidered Rauol's proposition. At least he was funding the excursion.

The door finally opened and they were greeted by a young man with light brown hair, and pale blue eyes, which immediately landed on Meg.

"You're the best looking pizza delivery guy I've ever seen." He smiled at her daughter charmingly and extended his hand. "I'm Sam Dyer, pleasure to meet you."

His accent made it even harder to Ann to follow what he was saying. English was not her best language; luckily Meg was more than proficient.

"I'm Meg Giry; this is my mother, Ann. We're looking for a friend."

"Oh. Right." He turned his back to them and yelled into the house. "Easy E, some French chicks are here looking for ya."

_Easy E_? They had to be at the wrong house. She should have known as soon as this kid opened the door. Erik didn't entertain guests, and he never answered his door. Or his phone…

"Ann!! Holy shit! I can't believe it!"

A man who looked a lot like Erik, even had a mask like Erik, was hugging her. Erik didn't hug people, and he'd speak to her in French. This was an imposter.

"Meg! Come on in."

He hugged her daughter. Hugged. Meg appeared to be equally perplexed.

"Que va sur? Que vous a fait à Erik? L'est mort? Vous a fait le tue?" Ann spoke frantically. (_What's going on? What have you done to Erik? Is he dead? Did you kill him?)_

Imposter Erik was wearing blue jeans and a black t-shirt. The real Erik would never be caught in anything so informal.

"Calm down. Look, I know you speak English, and nobody else speaks French…it makes them…uncomfortable, you know?"

He'd led them into the house, practically dragging her, Meg stumbling along behind. A group of people were seated around a large screen television; two men, counting the one who'd opened the door-he was still staring at Meg-and one woman.

"Alright, Ann, Meg, these are my friends; Sam, I think you've already met, Blake, and Beatrix." He pointed out the different people, smiling the whole time. Erik didn't smile.

"Friends from the old country, Erik?" The one called Blake chuckled, and handed Erik a beer.

"J'ai besoin de vous parler maintenant!" (_I need to talk to you now)_ Yelling at Erik always brought out his temper.

He ignored her. "Meg, would you like a beer? I can open a bottle of wine if you'd prefer."

"Christine, Raoul et son frère est dans l'attente de voiture!" (_Christine, Raoul and his brother are outside waiting)_

_That_ got his attention. He choked on his drink and nearly spat it out. "_Merde_."

His friends looked at him, almost protectively, but Erik remained rather cool about the whole thing. She should have been happy for the benign change in him, instead she was scared.

"Well…" Why couldn't he just speak to her in French? "I suppose the polite thing to do is invite them in."


End file.
